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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778004">clint eastwood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsvn/pseuds/crimsvn'>crimsvn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angel!George, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Guardian Angels, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Overdosing, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, addict!dream, but also not quite enemies?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:54:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778004</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsvn/pseuds/crimsvn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dream wishes he could attribute seeing George for the first time to the high.</p><p>Maybe then he could make sense of the stranger standing in his living room.</p><p>-</p><p>(Or, moderate-functioning, severely drug-addicted Dream has a run-in with death one night, but unfortunately, according to George, his apparent guardian angel, it just wasn't quite his time to go yet.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>380</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. live fast, die young, pay the price</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey! i want to preface this by restating some TWs, just so that you can be extra sure you're comfortable reading this.</p><p>there is/will be substance use/abuse, overdosing, and suicidal ideation. i'll make sure to add tags for anything i haven't mentioned. PLEASE do not read if any of these things are triggering for you!! stay safe :) &lt;3</p><p>++ i'd also like to mention that i have never written anything like this before, so i'm really testing the waters. </p><p>work title is from the gorillaz song, chapter title is from social cues by cage the elephant :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was a Friday. It should have been like any other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a Friday when each of his limbs, all the way from his shoulders and hips down to his extremities felt like they were on fire, burning with the aching sensation of desperation for relief. The fabric of his button-up and slacks pinched him in all the wrong and most uncomfortable places, too loose and ill-fitting everywhere else. He adjusts his necktie for what was probably the fifth time in an hour, feeling stifled, sickened, and unable to breathe, as if his windpipe was slowly being crushed, the weight of a heavy boot pressing down, becoming more forceful by the second. His mouth was dry as the Sahara and his throat felt as if it had been stuffed full with cotton, no matter how many times he tried to clear it. Beads of cold sweat prickled above his brow and at the back of his neck, a disagreeable contrast to the blazing heat that lay underneath his skin, taunting him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In sum, Dream felt like complete and utter dog shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a Friday. It wasn’t like any other, as much as Dream wanted it to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But currently, and unfortunately, he was at work, and couldn’t do anything to satiate his torturous craving for a high. Instead, he had to sit through an agonizing itch that couldn’t be scratched. And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the itch would not fade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream takes a deep, rattling breath, digging harsh crescents into his palms as he clenches his fists to keep his hands from trembling. He bites down on his knuckle as a headache pounded at every corner of his mind, keeping him from being able to concentrate on his work—a document he was meant to be proofreading before it was fully approved for publishing. His leg bounces uncontrollably as he was losing focus on the screen in front of him, and the jumbled, incomprehensible words that occupied it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one of those days, rare and unlike every other. He had figured that one out pretty early on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had all started in the morning, though it hadn’t been nearly as fierce nor as unmanageable in comparison with the present. Otherwise, he may have called in sick—but then again, Dream really couldn’t afford to. He never could, anymore, though he supposed that was no one else’s fault but his own. Dream was, and would always be his own undoing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, on the days that </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span> like any other, he was able to maintain a decent control over his body over prolonged periods of time, able to survive with his minimum of three smoke breaks over the eight to ten hours he sat at his cubicle in the dull, grey office of the publishing company he worked for, but today—today, that wasn’t enough. It didn’t come </span>
  <em>
    <span>close</span>
  </em>
  <span> to being enough. His body yearned for an escape from his own head, and from his loneliness. To forget where he was, not just literally, but in life itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body yearned to feel like he was floating, and not like he was sinking to the freezing depths of the ocean like a stone, his lungs quickly filling with water, drowning, drowning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>drowning.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream checks the clock he had at his mostly empty desk, one of the very few personal items he kept. The time told him, in an angry, blaring red, that he was still obligated to stay in the hell he had created for himself for at least another fifteen minutes. He rubs at his temples as if to massage away the persistent pressure in his head. Dream sighs a shaky, pathetic breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words on his computer hadn’t become any more clear to Dream, no matter how hard he tried to understand them. Every character seemed to blend together into one blurry, mashed together block of letters, each of which he could read separately, but not as one in order to create words. Create sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After little contemplation, he decides to clock out early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream saves what little progress he made in the past few hours, closes the tab and logs off his computer. The document wasn’t due for another week anyways. He doesn’t bother to let his manager know that he was leaving then, as it was too close to the end of his work day for anyone to care. At least, for Dream to care. Not when every ounce of his being ached for a sweet release.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream’s arrival home couldn’t come any faster. Too bad he couldn’t speed up public transport. Too bad he didn’t own a car. Then maybe he wouldn’t have to suffer as long on days like today. Days where withdrawal returned a thousand times more intense and with a rabid vengeance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His suffocatingly tight tie is removed and tossed aside somewhere in his run-down apartment, and the first few buttons of his shirt are immediately undone. Dream already begins to feel better, and less so like he was drowning, but he didn’t feel quite well enough just yet, to swim to the surface. There was still something missing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream finds exactly what he’s looking for taped under one of the drawers of his bathroom’s vanity—a small baggie of cocaine he had bought off a new dealer about a week prior, left untouched since. He greedily digs his index finger into the bag, lifting out some powder to rub into his gums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he ought to stop doing this in the bathroom, especially in front of the mirror where he was forced to see the ugly composition of skin and bones that he was. He was stick thin, it seemed nowadays, and his face was gaunt and pale, like he never slept. Dream isn’t really sure if he ever does anymore. His fingers are spindly and thin, as is the rest of him. With his shirt loosened the way it was, he could see his collarbone jut out sharply and noticeably. A skeleton was what he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been handsome, once. And charming, and friendly. A catch. A much better person than he was now. Than he probably ever could be again. But Dream supposes that maybe that was just part of the reason as to how he had ended up where he was presently—a drug addict with no family, no friends, and one foot already lowered into the grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he’d also been a helluva player and a borderline sex addict. He’d been mixed in with the wrong crowd much too young, with the death of his single mother (who had already been pretty estranged anyways) when he was sixteen to top everything off. He’d fell into a life that would cause him nothing but grief. As he grew up and filled out, Dream had been able to take home just about anyone who wanted to, not only for a good fuck, but an amazing high as well. He had kept any company because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed it. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He was desperate to fill in the large gaps that had been implanted into his life. A search for the puzzle pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, however, he was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> lonely. Drugs had replaced his need for the warmth of another person. Now, the only time anyone would even think to look his way was to wonder how a corpse was still living, breathing, dragging himself along amongst a world of fully functional individuals. Trying his best to exist on the same social scale as the survivors, like they didn’t look down on him with upturned noses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A zombie. The shell of what once was. That’s what he was, now. That’s all he was. A skeleton, a zombie, a</span>
  <em>
    <span> monster.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The dead come to life, grasping onto a rope only a few fibres away from breaking and letting him fall completely into his grave. To his death, and likely eternal damnation. It’s what he deserved, anyways. At least, that’s what Dream believed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking prick,” he snarls at his reflection. “Good for nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just as his upper lip goes numb, his cruel, unforgiving, self-loathing thoughts begin to drift away as the sensation deepens, and a wide, hysterical grin pulls at his cheeks as he throws his head back and revels in the feeling. A laugh bubbles up his throat, breathy and empty. So very empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream rubs a little more of the cocaine powder into his gums for good measure before he replaces the baggie under the drawer, and takes one last glance in the mirror before leaving the bathroom. He was nothing glamorous, but he sure as hell felt as if he were. Like he could do anything. Like he was somebody again. It was times like these that Dream often wondered why he was ever sober.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting fucked up was euphoric, and life sober was simply… </span>
  <em>
    <span>miserable. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Nothing he felt he wanted any part in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You glorious fucking bastard, Dream,” he says, teeth bared at the mirror, predatory. Dream’s eyes aren’t his own anymore. “You goddamned junkie piece of shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream relishes in the moment as he travels to his living room, with its torn wallpaper and little furniture, flopping onto his couch and melting into the cushions. There’s a faint taste of iron in his mouth, but that was something he was used to. Blood on his tongue had become less of a rarity over the years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He celebrates the high with a joint, uncaring. He’d surely kill himself one day because of his lack of caution, but Dream couldn’t say that he cared. He never had. He didn’t have a reason to, nor would he go searching for one. No one would miss him. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone to miss him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream holds the joint between his thumb and forefinger in his right hand, flicking his lighter with his left thumb. He breathes in slow and deep, filling his lungs with smoke, before exhaling. He watches the vapour twirl and dissipate into the air as it leaves his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart palpitates, and maybe that should have been the first warning sign, if anything. But instead of paying any attention to it, Dream continues to take generous drags from his joint, blissful, and oblivious to his rapidly deteriorating state. Oblivious to the fact that his body was shutting down on him, bit by bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only snubs the joint out in the ashtray that sat centre on his messy coffee table when spots begin appearing in his vision about a half hour later. Dizziness settles in and it starts to feel as if the room was spinning. He feels like all the air in his lungs is being gradually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>painfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>squeezed out of him. Dream’s chest heaves and constricts as he fights for oxygen, but it’s a losing battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tumbles off the couch, consciousness starting to slip from his clutch, and he thinks his body begins to convulse, but he can’t tell. He can’t, and the realization is </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrifying. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had accepted the idea of death when it was within reach—though not quite within touch—but now, as it creeps up on him, Dream is </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The reality and gravity of the situation hit him at a million miles an hour, allowing no room for him to catch up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Foaming spit creeps up his throat and coats his tongue, the saliva trickling out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. He thinks it ought to be stained red, judging by the sharp pain that blossoms on his tongue, where his teeth have come down, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard, </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the muscle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t even have the time to think, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is how I die.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is how I die—overdosing, alone, in my trashed apartment, where no one will find me until my corpse starts to rot and smell and I get a complaint from the neighbours to the landlord and they find me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But no one will be surprised, will they? Certainly no one will be surprised to see the near shut-in, choking on spit and probably lying in a pool of his own piss, dead of an overdose.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream swears he sees a figure standing in the corner of the room, followed by a distant voice, but then his world goes dark, and his brain is but a void, clear of all thought, with no sign of a return.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But despite the fear that was cursed upon his soul the moment everything began to go wrong, Dream can’t find half the heart to mind with the scraps of life he still had remaining, though they are hasty to slip away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t see a light. Only pitch blackness would greet Dream.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a past sinner, the last winner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from PDA by interpol :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He wakes up, not in the flaming pits of hell, nor in some other version of hellish damnation, but rather a scratchy and stiff hospital bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fluorescent lights are much too bright for his sensitive vision. Dream fights to blink back the tears that threaten his eyes as he squints them open in order to take in his surroundings, little by little. The light was too harsh in contrast to the heavy darkness he had fallen victim to before. Dream hadn’t a single idea as to how it was possible for him to have gotten to a hospital in time to live, when no one had been around in what should have been his final dying moments.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know whether to curse or rejoice in his continued existence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth is dry again, though it’s somehow a much different sensation than when it had been a cause of his withdrawal. The rough, cottony feeling in his throat is all the same, however. It wasn’t choking, though, only difficult to swallow, like the tough lump that you had to keep down in order not to cry.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A nurse is at Dream’s side in an instant, once she notices that he’s awake. Or, in the very least, conscious. He feels nauseous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She proceeds to go through a thorough inspection of his vitals and overall bodily function. She pokes and prods, and Dream’s conscience knows she’s doing her job, but it felt intrusive and uncomfortable. He didn’t like being touched anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The itch started to creep back, tingling beneath his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re lucky your friend George was there with you,” the nurse tells him. “Had he not called, no amount of naloxone would have been able to help you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before Dream is able to ask who this George person was, as there hadn’t been anyone with him as far as he could recall, nor did he </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> anyone named George, the nurse is explaining how he’d suffered through multiple overdoses on his way to the hospital as a result of the concoction of substances running rampant in his body. Toxicology had apparently reported it to be fentanyl—meaning something of Dream’s had been laced, and the cause of the overdose had surprisingly not been his mixing of cocaine and pot overwhelming his system entirely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It couldn’t have been the coke anyways, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Naloxone only works for opioids. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That had been something Dream had picked up, being surrounded by drugs for a good portion of his life. It was funny, knowing how to treat an overdose, but then becoming the victim of one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He essentially tunes out the nurse after that, not mindful of the aftercare he was meant to follow. Her recommendation to stay off drugs, go to rehab, he looked like he needed it. Dream feels these words are less than favourable towards him. No one ever thought highly of addicts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream, according to her, had also gotten a mild concussion from the way his head had hit once off the floor when he’d gone into a seizure—tonic-clonic, she says. Whatever that meant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s directed to get as much rest as he can, avoid driving and various other things that he wasn’t too concerned about, but mostly importantly—Dream was instructed to stay sober.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>As if that would happen, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wants to tell her, but Dream knows better. If he had, then surely they’d send him straight to an addiction treatment centre, rather than let him take public transport home. Though, the nurse already looked prepared to do so, going by the distasteful, judgemental gaze she held over him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he knew that just about anyone could OD, Dream knew he looked like an addict. He was a bit ashamed, sure, but there wasn’t much point in trying to hide it when he looked seconds away from decay anyways. But the least the nurse could do was mask her disdain for him, whom of which she surely thought was the scum of the earth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, he doesn’t quite know if he blames her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She offhandedly mentions that CPR had been performed since he hadn’t been breathing when the EMTs had found him, as to explain his complaints of an aching chest as he sat up straighter. Luckily, though, nothing had been fractured or broken. There is no sympathy in her words. No comfort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The burning itch only grows more persistent on his way out from the hospital. Fortunately, it was overwhelmed by fatigue more than anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was still Friday. He gets home just before midnight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His apartment is unchanged from earlier, of course, other than the fact that his coffee table had been pushed aside, presumably to make room to get him on a stretcher. The first thing Dream does is close the blinds that had remained open, after flicking on the lamp that sat next to the window. It casts a dull, dim, soft yellow glow over the room, which seemed plenty more sensible to him compared to the blindingly bright lights of the hospital. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls the table back to where it usually stood. Dream’s half-smoked joint still sits in the ashtray, which provokes him to wonder what had been the thing to contain fentanyl—but then he remembers smoking plenty more of the joints from the same dealer with no issue, therefore pinning the blame on the new guy he’d ventured to try out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurts, knowing he’d have to get rid of the rest of the cocaine and live with the fact he’d never get that money back, but he’d rather not be saddled with any more debt that he would surely have to shoulder once the hospital dumped the bill on him. That, and the entire experience of overdosing was not in his best interests. If he were to kill himself, it’d be on his own terms, not by accident.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which then brings Dream to think—he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>have died, realistically. If he hadn’t been breathing, like the nurse had told him. So how the fuck was he still here, alive?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then his mind drifts back to a name, that the nurse had also mentioned. </span>
  <em>
    <span>George.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re lucky your friend George was there with you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she had said, which was more than weird—it was outright bizarre. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No one </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been with Dream. He’d been wallowing in self-pity all on his own, as he usually did. Alone, as he usually was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream tries to think up any sort of possibility—a neighbour, or something—but none of his conclusions made sense. His apartment door had been locked, he hadn’t been loud. None of it made sense to Dream, and he didn’t like that. The curiosity nagged and pulled at his brain, but he couldn’t come up with anything plausible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has the odd sense that he’s being watched as he readies for bed, moments away from collapsing from exhaustion. When he gets to the bathroom and feels under the drawer for the baggie, it appears to be missing, which was concerning. He didn’t remember too much from earlier that day, but replacing the bag had been one of the few things he </span>
  <em>
    <span>clearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>recalled doing. He ducks down to double check, but sure enough, there’s no sign of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream considers panicking, he really does, but decides he didn’t have the energy for it then. He’d figure it out after he slept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brushes his teeth and tongue thoroughly, the faint taste of blood and the sourness of bile lingering. He must have vomited at some point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream runs fingers through uncombed hair that had started to curl around his ears. He thinks he ought to cut his hair sometime soon, as it had gotten much too shaggy, and tended to tangle more often, more easily. He thinks he should try to find the conviction to keep himself groomed, and at least grant himself that small normalcy. Too bad he hadn’t the motivation nor effort to do so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t remember whether or not the nurse had mentioned if he could take any painkillers with his concussion, but his head ached too much for him to care if the two aspirins he dry-swallows would impact him negatively. As if his body wasn’t already fucked up enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep comes quicker than it typically did. He doesn’t dream, but the feeling that someone, or some</span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>was watching him lingers until he’s passed out. It leaves him feeling uneasy, as he hides under the covers, away from the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The instinct has disappeared by the time Dream wakes up in the morning, or more accurately, the early afternoon. His stomach growls angrily with hunger, underlined with the itch, the longing to be alleviated of sobriety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a Saturday. Dream already had his day set out for himself, or so he thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His breakfast was going to consist of a joint, which he knew would only serve to make him hungrier, as well as eggs and whatever scraps of food he found around his poorly stocked kitchen. His plans are foiled, though, as he struggles to find the case in which he kept his joints.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream is searching below the couch and under the coffee table when a voice startles him, effectively jumpstarting his adrenaline and a rapid heartbeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Looking for something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his surprise, Dream ends up smacking his head off the underside of the table, as if the headache from his concussion hadn’t been enough of a nuisance. He groans, rubbing the backside of his head as he carefully makes sure to move out from under the table to figure out who had asked the question. Or, really, to figure out who the fuck was in his apartment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across the room stood a man Dream had never seen in his life, let alone met. He was short and had a small stature, but his skinny frame was natural, and not a show of drugs eating away at his body like Dream’s was. But, honestly, Dream could care less about the man’s looks at the moment—he was a stranger that had somehow gotten into his apartment. He was a stranger that had a hold on the case Dream had been searching for.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the fuck are you?” Dream demands rudely. The man seems unfazed. “And why the fuck are you in my apartment?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m George,” the man introduces. His expression remains neutral. “I’m your guardian angel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs. His eyebrows are drawn together in irritability. “Guardian angel?” He echoes, as if the words personally offended him. “You save my life once, then suddenly you’re my “guardian angel”? Bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George shrugs, uncaring. “You can take it as you will. I never expected you to believe me,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream decides he hates George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you’re pretty shit at your job, </span>
  <em>
    <span>George,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream retaliates, a tone of venom. “Because if you really are who you say, then wouldn’t you have wanted to prevent my overdose from happening in the first place? Wouldn’t you want to have kept me from addiction entirely? Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs tiredly, as if he knew full well Dream would question him as such. “I don’t expect you to understand, either. At least, not yet. The amount of impact I’m allowed to have over your life is… </span>
  <em>
    <span>complicated. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The rules are delicate. Nothing I can explain right now—the only thing I can tell you, Dream, is that it wasn’t your time yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shakes his head, stalking up to George. He towers over the man, the self-proclaimed “guardian angel”, but George appears the opposite of intimidated. Dream pushes a sharp, accusatory finger to George’s sternum. “Well I can tell you this much, George, is that </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>decide when it’s my time to go. No one else. Not you, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Now give me that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream attempts to snatch the case from George, but as he does, George has disappeared just as fast as Dream could blink. Dream’s hand grabs at nothing but air. The displeasure in his heart only blossoms, greater and angrier, at this. He whirls around to see George standing by the couch, in the space where Dream had once occupied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The thing is, Dream, is that your fate has already been decided for you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>just in charge of making sure it happens,” George informs him. He holds up the case. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>these, </span>
  </em>
  <span>all of this, is not going to help me get you there. Ever heard of a thing called divine intervention?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream ignores George’s question, opting to focus on what was more important to himself at the moment, which was getting the case back. “I’m not going cold turkey, if that’s what you’re thinking. If you thought I wasn’t suicidal </span>
  <em>
    <span>now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> then I’d hate to break it to you, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t technically </span>
  <em>
    <span>force </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to do anything you don’t want to,” George tells him, though Dream can tell the confession is reluctant. George sets the case on the coffee table, in the midst of a mess of outdated magazines and mail. “But I can certainly encourage you. I’m here to give you guidance. So that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> get yourself into life threatening situations. And, as much as I know you’ll deny it—I know there’s at least a small part of you that wants the help to get rid of your… addiction.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You say that word like it’s dirty,” Dream says quietly, after a beat. It especially stung whenever someone addressed his </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem </span>
  </em>
  <span>aloud. It was one thing to address it himself, call himself an addict, but whenever someone else said it—it was like shoving reality down his throat, unwelcome, unsolicited. Slapping him in the face with something he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to acknowledge. Something he wanted to fix, but believed he never would. Believed it impossible. So he never bothered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s…” George trails off, as if searching for the right words to say. Like his intention was to tiptoe around a straight answer, like he was walking on glass, talking to Dream, being in his presence.  “It’s not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dream. Of course not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever,” Dream grumbles. He steps up to the table to take the case before George could decide to keep it out of Dream’s reach again. Dream removes a joint from the silver case and balances it between his lips whilst he searches for his lighter. Dream pretends he doesn’t see the forlorn look on George’s face as he does so, though the angel doesn’t say anything in protest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream lights the joint and takes a long drag as he makes his way to the kitchen, tossing the case and lighter on his counter. He turns around as he pinches the joint between his fingers to breathe out the smoke that filled his lungs, to say something to George, but he’s disappeared. Dream shrugs it off. His head must be </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucked up if he’s started seeing things without a hallucinogen—which, speaking of, he should talk to his regular dealer about getting some acid. Surely George couldn’t control that much, if he was indeed real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes breakfast, though perhaps he should call it brunch, finishes and snuffs out his first joint and moves on to a second. As the day grows later, and as Dream only gets higher, there’s no sign of George. It must’ve been some sort of hallucination, Dream concludes, though he’s not very confident of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It doesn’t matter anyways, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. No matter if it was the first conversation he had held outside of work or buying drugs for a long time. He didn’t care. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> didn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Unbelievable,” Dream says to an empty room. He’s lounging on his couch again, though he nurses a beer now, doing his best to drown out the negative thoughts that often seemed to cloud his mind. His head hangs over one arm of the sofa, staring up at the yellowing, water-stained ceiling. “Claims he’s here to help then fucking disappears. Fuckin’ ace.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sits up and downs the rest of his beer. It’d been his fourth one that day. God forbid it worsened his concussion—maybe he’d go out with irreversible brain trauma, by which he meant a bullet to the head in order to put an end to his seemingly everlasting headache and silence his conscience once and for all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sounds nice. Quick. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He hadn’t a gun, however, so it wasn’t quite an option at the moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a wonder he still fancied death after his encounter with it the night before. Something about it seemed so appealing, just the same as continuing to abuse drugs despite them being the cause of said near-death experience. Dream really wished the coke hadn’t been laced, but then he remembers that it had disappeared, anyways. He guessed, if anything, that that could have been George’s doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sets the beer bottle aside and lays back down, letting his eyelids flutter shut. He thinks he’ll just rest a moment, but he ends up falling asleep, only to wake up Sunday morning with a painful crick in his neck, along with a sore shoulder from having slept on it wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What a god-awful weekend it had been so far.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>from here on i'm going to try to do weekly updates every sunday :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. see you later, innovator</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from brianstorm - arctic monkeys</p>
<p>u know the drill :)<br/>decided i'm gonna do updates on sun + thurs so i can get this fic out faster, and get new fics out sooner! :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>George, surprisingly, does reappear to Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next time he does, after their first encounter on Saturday, was on Monday morning, as Dream was getting ready, begrudgingly, to head to work. George had left Dream to wallow alone for the entirety of Sunday, and Dream wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, maybe he had been left alone since he had started his Sunday by snorting heroin, which had left him with a lovely nosebleed. And if that was the case, Dream had to agree with what he had told George the day before, about his shit job at being a guardian angel. If he was supposed to help stop his addiction, Dream had to wonder where he had been. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t dare question him, though, when George reappears the morning after.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Conversation begins light, Dream’s anger having seemingly washed away from their last meeting. He supposes it was because George hadn’t decided to take something of his, and scold him like he was a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But just as Dream is getting dressed, George asks something of genuine curiosity, however unwarranted and not exactly appropriate </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought you were only able to inject heroin,” he says. “Why not do that? Wouldn’t your high just come faster?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shrugs, buttoning up his shirt with haste. He didn’t like the way that his ribs poked out from under his skin. “I’m afraid of needles,” he admits lightly, simply. He doesn’t feel like elaborating any more than that. He didn’t want to tell George that there was way more to it than just a phobia. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George seems satisfied with the response anyways, not pushing any further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not gonna eat anything?” George asks later, just as Dream is about to leave for work.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See, George, the thing about time is that it exists for normal people,” Dream replies, growing annoyed. It hadn’t taken very long for that to happen. “I slept in. Bus comes too soon to stop now. Oh well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not very healthy,” George chides, as if his words would have any sort of effect on Dream. George did that often.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream barks out a laugh, just before he opens his door. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s something else that I do that’s much less healthy than not eating,” he says. “I’ll see you later. Or not. Whichever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sees George again on his first smoke break.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know, nicotine doesn’t quite tame the soul like everything else,” Dream says, before George is able to say anything himself. “Helps to curb the cravings, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a wonder you haven’t contracted any kind of cancer yet,” George says. Dream senses an undertone of sarcasm, but he doesn’t mind. In all honesty, Dream himself was just as curious about that. Though, maybe he had—he refused to see a doctor even if he probably should from time to time. The hospital visit was an exception, as he’d ended up there without his consent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hums in agreement. He takes a drag of the cigarette, tapping the ash to the ground as he exhales. “Wouldn’t you know about that? With your “divine intervention”, or whatever it was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George shakes his head. “I, personally, don’t know anything about something like that. I’m just meant to be an influence, more than anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then why now, of all the times I could’ve used the guidance, huh?” Dream asks. He takes one last drag before flicking the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it beneath his foot. He looks to George for the answer to his question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I told you, it’s complicated,” George says, a repeat of his response from a few days before. “And I’ve always </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, just not visible to you. Your near-death experience is what created the bridge from your world to mine. It works like that for everyone who needs their guardian angel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And the call?” Dream inquires. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Same thing. I was able to… </span>
  <em>
    <span>materialize,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because of it. Though, really, I do have the ability to do that every once in a while anyways, but not exactly like that night,” George explains. “Like I said, it’s—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Complicated,” Dream finishes. “I know. You’ve mentioned it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream trudges back into the office, leaving George behind. He supposes the explanation makes sense, at least in some regard. George was looking to be less and less like a hallucination, which was… comforting?—</span>
  <em>
    <span>comforting</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know that he wasn’t completely out of his mind yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Emphasis on </span>
  <em>
    <span>yet.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the workday passes like the wind. Though his headache still pounds at his skull, Dream doesn’t feel as if his body was eating away at him from the inside out. A much better experience than what had occurred Friday. Ultimately, though, he was still looking forward to getting high once he had arrived home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is home to greet him, annoyingly so. Dream pushes past him, shutting his door behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck do you want now?” Dream grumbles. He tosses his keys on the counter and loosens his tie, though not as desperately as he had Friday—it was routine. What wasn’t routine was George’s hovering, as if he were supervising Dream’s every move—which, really, he sort of was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” George deadpans. He folds his arms over his chest, with that same </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>expression of dissatisfaction on his face. Dream sort of wants to punch it, thinking it might make him feel better, but he resists. George would probably do that weird teleporting thing he had done the other day, anyways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not what I asked,” Dream says instead, turning away from George. “What part of the word “angel” applies to you anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be nice or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be anything,” George says, as if it were that obvious. As if Dream cared. “And it’s not like you’d listen to me if I was. Not that you listen to me as is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, because you’re not my </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream snaps. He pulls a hand through his hair to push it out of his face as he rummages for the silver case he was searching for. George waits by, awfully still, silent, and statuesque. It’s rather unnerving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream suddenly pauses. “You took it again, didn’t you?” He asks George. He doesn’t specify what he means, as he’s certain George knows exactly what he’s referring to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His suspicions are confirmed when George’s shoulders go lax in defeat, and as if a magician making something appear from nothing, George produces the silver case and dumps it on the counter. “Hoped you wouldn’t notice,” he mutters miserably. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream can’t help but laugh. “How naive are you? To think that an addict wouldn’t notice some of his stash is missing? Christ.” Dream shakes his head, snatching up the silver case. Upon opening it, he decided that it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>about time he called his dealer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dream, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, none of that!” Dream exclaims irritably, whirling around to face George. He thinks his face might be red, flushed with new anger towards the angel. “No… </span>
  <em>
    <span>acting </span>
  </em>
  <span>like you know me, alright? Sure, maybe you’ve heard some of the things I’ve said, or seen some of the things I’ve done, but you don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. </span>
  </em>
  <span>So don’t fucking pretend like you do. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>allowed to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>waltz </span>
  </em>
  <span>into my life and think you can fix it with a little friendly… whatever it is that you’re trying to do. Got that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream closes and sets the case down, a tad forcefully as to break the silence that followed his outburst. He clenches his jaw in frustration, diverting his gaze from George, bracing his arms on the counter. Dream takes a deep, unsteady breath in, trying to calm himself down. He never </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>to lash out, but it wasn’t often there was someone else to be mad at. His fingers drum an anxious beat on the linoleum.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A quiet room with someone else in it felt far different than the usual </span>
  <em>
    <span>lonely </span>
  </em>
  <span>silence Dream was engulfed in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t happen to hide anything else, did you?” Dream asks, his voice raspy, barely above a whisper. He had decided to forgo the weed, at least for now. It was only meant to be a starting place, anyways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George huffs, before he drops a baggie of beige powder—Dream’s heroin—on the counter, as well as the cocaine that had nearly killed Dream. Or, at least, the fentanyl it had been laced with had. Dream could care less about the latter being kept hidden from him. Dream utters a reluctant thanks to George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine, then, Dream.” George sighs. “I won’t pretend to be your friend. I won’t act like I know you. Fine. I can do that, and I can continue to do that until I wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. Got </span>
  <em>
    <span>that?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream just grunts, rolls his eyes, and waves a dismissive gesture in George’s general direction. He had other priorities as of that moment. He couldn’t give less of a shit about George’s endeavours—Dream knew he could be a particularly difficult individual when it came to getting close to someone, especially nowadays. No matter if George was ever-present, the angel wasn’t going to have any fewer hardships. He was no exception. Dream had no interest in getting to know him. He doubted he ever would.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s back is turned on George as his fishes for his wallet, digging for his credit card. “You haven’t happened to see any of those empty CD cases I keep laying around, have—oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is gone when Dream finally turns around. Which, unfortunately, leaves his question unanswered, but the nuisance and obstacle that was George was no longer physically in the room, leaving Dream without a conscience, just how he liked it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The few CD cases are in a clean little stack in his bedroom, at the foot of his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream clears off a space on his untidied dresser for one of the cases, carefully pouring some of his heroin on the hard plastic. He uses his card to separate it into two neat, accessible lines, before taking a bill he had also removed from his wallet, rolling it tight. His inhale is sharp, strong. Both lines are gone in seconds, burning his nostril and down his throat, but the feeling that follows more than makes up for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It isn’t long before he feels the slow drip of blood from his nose. Dream wipes it away just before it reaches his lips, though instead of doing the sensible thing of finding a tissue, he opts to suck it off his finger, just as blood continues to ooze from his right nostril. It’s the start of a great night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drinks and smokes until it’s early Tuesday morning, and George is never there to stop him and his self-destructive behaviour. Not even as he’s puking into the toilet bowl at two in the morning. Dream has to tie his hair up to keep it out of his face as he groans weakly into the porcelain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He really should cut it soon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream brushes his teeth twice to get rid of the putrid taste of vomit that stuck to his tongue and teeth, but even as he considers squeezing more toothpaste onto his toothbrush, he fears not even a third time would be enough. He wasn’t sure who he was fooling, though—it wasn’t ever enough. He should know that from </span>
  <em>
    <span>plenty </span>
  </em>
  <span>of experience. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too much, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he might even argue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drags his feet on his way to bed, and ends up lying in a starfish position on his back, staring up at the ceiling, unable to find the will to sleep. Dream knows he should try, knows he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be sleeping as he had work in the morning, but he simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not that this was rare, but he was starting to get sick of it. The bags under his eyes grew more pronounced as the days passed by.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is sitting in his kitchen when he wanders out of his room in the morning, and Dream supposes this would become routine, as much as he didn’t wish to accept it so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He supposes he’d have to get used to it, at least until he could figure out how to get rid of George. Then he could set his mind at ease, and for good.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. rules and wisdom choke you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>chapter title from exit music (for a film) - radiohead</p>
<p>TW for panic attacks, though it's not too descriptive</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After a month, Dream discovers that he could always make George fuck off, without fail, by getting high. It wasn’t a permanent solution by any means, but it still meant peace and quiet at the cost of doing something he was nearly always doing anyways. Something as simple as smoking a joint would cause George to roll his eyes and disappear off to… wherever it was that he went, and figuring that out was the best thing that had ever happened to Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Other than the mornings before work, George had very little room to nag him, and it was great. Dream could decide whether or not he wanted to keep the company, which, more often than not, he didn’t. So, simply, he’d pull out a joint, or a tablet of LSD, or he’d set up a line, or do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>that had to do with drugs, and he’d be set. It was easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Dream continues to sit in his success anyways, and hate himself with no mercy as per usual. His hair is still too long, his skin still hangs off his bones, and his eyes are still sad and foreign to him. He had assured little change would occur with the hiccup to his life path known as George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream gets a feel for George’s rationale, and it makes it easier for him to work around the angel. Annoy him. Push him away. Accomplish exactly what he aims to accomplish without George getting in the way. With everything that had been fucked up about his body and in his head, his intuition and knack for reading people </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he was all glad for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He theorizes that the reason George left to nowhere the moment Dream started to get high was because, once Dream’s sobriety was out of the picture, there was no way to reason with the addict. George couldn’t enforce change when, clearly, change couldn’t take place. When it was too late.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though Dream would argue it was too late in general, be it drugs were presently having an effect on his system or not. Dream had reached the state of irreversibility, so even though he was able to piece together George and his thinking—it irked him to no end that George continued to think that there was still a possibility that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> get “better”. George’s glass-half-full optimism had long since gotten on Dream’s nerves now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the very least, though, true to his word, George doesn’t try to pretend to be all chummy with Dream, like he had at first. George had at least granted him that small mercy, and, though he would never admit it, Dream appreciates it. It was the first time, in a long time, that anyone had ever actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>listened </span>
  </em>
  <span>to what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a Friday. It had been three Fridays since his… </span>
  <em>
    <span>incident, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and all problems in his life were the pre-existing ones, problems formed well before George was a presence in his life. He was now home after a long day, relaxed and willfully ignoring George as he decided his starting point for the night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You realize you’ve achieved next to nothing in a month, right?” Dream says at some point. He’s decided on acid, currently placing a small square of blotting paper under his tongue. Dream almost makes a show of it, as to rub his statement in George’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George frowns. “Well maybe that’s because, I don’t know, you’re making it impossible?” He retorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Does that mean you’re ready to give up yet?” He teases.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George shakes his head, a challenging look etched into his own face. “What do you take me for? Not by a long shot, am I ready to give up,” George tells Dream, matter-of-factly. His smug expression pisses Dream off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s smile falls, and his mood immediately sours. He begins to count down the seconds until George decides to leave, trying to think of a way to lessen them significantly faster. “Fine, then. Guess I’ll just have to start trying harder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You haven’t already?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shrugs. “Apparently not,” he says. He opens his mouth and lifts his tongue as if to display the paper sitting there, and points, before lowering his tongue once more. “Care to join me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know I don’t,” George says, without so much as batting an eye. Like his answer was always ready, which, really, it probably was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not,” Dream replies, unsurprised. He wasn’t even sure it was possible for an angel to get high, as it was. Not that he felt implored to ask, nor was it likely that George would tell him the answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is gone not too long after their exchange, though less so in the fashion he usually did. The last time Dream sees him that night, he could tell the look in George’s eye was that of scheming, which made him feel uneasy, in the very least. </span>
</p>
<p><span>But the feeling is forgotten in the late hours, which wasn’t abnormal. The numbness of euphoria and the memory loss he surely suffers from after years of drug abuse were a deadly combination, and Dream loved</span> <span>it with a ravaging passion. He was broken, </span><em><span>ruined, </span></em><span>and it was just the shoulder he needed to lean on. His crutch.</span></p>
<p><span>At some point, however, it’s like a switch is flipped somewhere in his mind, and he’s cowering in a corner, feeling small, </span><em><span>smaller </span></em><span>than ever, like his throat is closing up on him until he can’t breathe, hot tears staining his cheeks. He feels so </span><em><span>incredibly</span></em><span> afraid,</span> <span>but he isn’t even sure of </span><em><span>what. </span></em><span>It’s as if an overwhelming, looming dread consumes every fibre of him, every </span><em><span>cell, </span></em><span>from the top of his head down to his toes.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Dream has had bad trips before, he’s had panic attacks before, but every single time he did, it was the most out-of-control he felt, and he hated it. He already kept a poor grip on his life, but the bad trips always ripped control away </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruthlessly. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And Dream had no way to regain it until it was finally over, minutes, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours </span>
  </em>
  <span>later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trapped in an inescapable nightmare, on a Friday night. Frightened, alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sounded just about right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then he isn’t alone anymore. Or maybe he still is, Dream isn’t sure. Reality felt beyond warped, and he couldn’t tell real from imaginary in his blurred vision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s George—at least, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks </span>
  </em>
  <span>it’s George. He wasn’t quite sure who else it could have been, if anyone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George sits beside him, though he leaves room for Dream to breathe, or if he decides to lash out. He had, once before, a long time ago—the memory still weighs heavy on his conscience. Dream wasn’t a violent person by nature, nor would he ever wish to be, but bad trips seemed to dig up the very deep, raging, primal urges of his id. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m here, Dream,” George tells him gently, and it’s the first sound aside from Dream’s quiet weeping that fills the stale air. “I’m here, I’m real, and you’ll be okay. Promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t—you can’t promise that,” Dream whispers hoarsely. </span>
  <em>
    <span>George can’t promise you anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s thinking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No one can. They never mean it. They never would, not talking to you. They don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>want</span>
  <em>
    <span> to keep promises for you. Why would they </span>
  </em>
  <span>ever</span>
  <em>
    <span> want to keep promises for you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe not,” George agrees softly. He places a hesitant, yet careful hand on Dream’s shoulder. It’s solid, and grounding, and Dream realizes that he had never made physical contact with George until now. “But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>here. For you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream doesn’t know how much time passes, before he starts coming down, crashing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His breathing begins to steady, and his tears are fewer and far between, but evidence of his panic attack still sticks to his skin like superglue. George doesn’t leave the entire time, a constant companionship, an anchor tethering Dream to real life—which, in many ways, was sort of ironic, being that George himself wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>a part of the real world. At least, he wasn’t for anyone but Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once George sees that Dream has mostly calmed down, he removes his hand, and the space it once occupied feels cold, empty, to Dream. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>being touched, and yet his body was still forcing his brain to realize just how starved for it he was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nonetheless, though, Dream moves away from George, once he’s back to himself. Back in control. Reluctant to show so much as another </span>
  <em>
    <span>drop</span>
  </em>
  <span> of vulnerability. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t speak of this,” Dream says lowly. He stares vacantly at the floor, eyes unfocused. His knees are pulled close to his chest. Dream recoils when George tries to reach out to him again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dream, you don’t have to—“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> speak of this,” Dream grits out, now glaring at George. He stretches out his legs, before pushing himself to stand. He stumbles, once, but stabilizes himself with the wall. “What part of that don’t you understand?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dream,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>George says, more adamantly this time, getting up as well. Concern is evident on his face, but Dream doesn’t care, as he’s already huffing indignantly and storming off to his room like a rotten teenager. He hears George’s footsteps trailing him, and can’t help but feel even </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>annoyed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream considers slamming his door in the angel’s face, but he ultimately decides against it. Instead, he just stops and plants his feet at the room’s entrance, looking angrily down at George. There’s a stormy determination behind his eyes, so incredibly upset by just </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing </span>
  </em>
  <span>George. Oddly, in a way, there was a feeling of betrayal deep in his heart. He couldn’t say exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>why, </span>
  </em>
  <span>however.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When I tell you to drop it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I fucking mean it,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream sneers. “It’s fucking embarrassing. It makes me look </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak, </span>
  </em>
  <span>George. Not that you’d understand. Not that you ever fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>could.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes the door, then, before George can get another word in. Dream doesn’t slam it, but maybe he shuts it with more force than necessary. Dream leans back against it, biting down on his thumb as to stop himself from crying again. He can feel himself trembling, and shrinks against the door, sliding to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream is only successful in keeping back tears because he’s severely dehydrated, his body unwilling to produce more, which is just his luck. He had too little dignity left to get back up and leave his room for a glass of water, though. He didn’t think he could face George again that night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so he sits, his body wanting to cry, but simply unable to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream wraps his arms around himself, harshly grabbing at the fabric of his shirt. His head is tilted back, leaning against the door, his neck exposed to the world. Dream bites down on his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. His teeth cut sharply into the flesh, drawing blood. He clenches his eyelids shut, as if hoping that once he opens his eyes once more, everything will be fine—at least, as fine as things </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But of course, things aren’t any better when he eventually does open his eyes to his unkempt room, just the same as it was before. The same as it always was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He melts into the floor, despite his bed being so close by. Dream doesn’t have the strength to push himself the few feet for the consolation of an old mattress and the warmth of his duvet. He doesn’t deserve it, anyways. Peace and comfort were miles out of his reach. They always had been.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream doesn’t sleep that night, instead kept awake, haunted by his thoughts and self-hatred. His shame. Wondering the </span>
  <em>
    <span>whys</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hows </span>
  </em>
  <span>and twists and turns of everything in his life that had somehow led him up to this moment. This moment of wallowing in self-pity and guilt, wondering at what point could he have fixed things. At what point could he have made a decision that wouldn’t let him turn out like this. That would’ve changed his life for the better. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At what point could he have saved himself?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was too much to ask of the universe, though, Dream knew that much. Especially since it had been nothing but unkind to him over the years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Around five in the morning is when Dream finally picks himself off the ground and drags himself to his kitchen, his stomach growling too furiously for him to manage any longer. Fatigue weighs heavy on his footsteps. He doesn’t recall the last time he ate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully, George must have finally gotten it through his thick skull that Dream didn’t want him around, or, at least, George had been courteous enough to give him space after his meltdown. That, or he was off plotting a way to hide Dream’s drugs for the nth time. Surely, at some point, the angel had to realize that he would never be successful in his endeavours, but alas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream slouches in one of the wooden chairs that sat at his dining table—a shitty, unbalanced, little plastic folding table that would easily collapse if he set something down too hard. He nibbles on a dry piece of toast, a half-full glass of water sitting next to his plate, yet to be touched. Dream feels only somewhat conscious at this point, tired, but refusing to fall asleep, afraid of what might lie beneath his eyelids.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then he’s woken up, alerted by the sudden creaking of the floorboards behind him. Dream cranes his neck to look, not wanting to shift around in his seat. It’s George, of course. Wringing his fingers, sheepishly, as if he were thinking about apologizing for something, but not quite willing to. Dream turns back to his food, shoulders hunched.</span>
</p>
<p><span>“What do you want now, George?” Dream grouses, just as he takes another bite of his toast. The </span><em><span>crunch! </span></em><span>produced</span> <span>is almost deafening, in the quiet, early morning hours of his apartment.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs. Dream’s gaze drifts lazily to the side, watching as George steps into view. Dream has to resist the urge to roll his eyes just by nature of George’s existence. George slides into the chair across from Dream, forcing the latter to make eye contact as the former spoke.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” George says. His tone of voice is genuine, but then again, there isn’t often a time that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream never understood how he did it—though, Dream certainly doesn’t admire the ability. It only ever served to tick Dream off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, Dream </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> roll his eyes. “I’m fine,” Dream says, with an air of finality. He was already beyond over this conversation with George, and it had yet to really start. Dream didn’t need George checking up on him like he was something fragile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though,” George insists. “That’s why I’m bringing it up again, even if it’s against your best wishes. I could not care less right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs. “Wow, already. Finally showing some autonomy, I’m impressed,” Dream says bitterly. He sits back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at George. He was unsure if George was baiting him a trap, so he thought to tread lightly, at least for the time being. “But let’s say I give a shit. Let’s say I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing fucking awful. What then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I would hope you’d finally realize that I’m here to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>George answers, exasperated. It was clear that, despite his persistence and admittance to not being ready to give up yet, Dream had still managed to wear the angel down. George was obviously getting tired of the game Dream had been playing, tired of scraping at the walls Dream had built up with a measly spoon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too bad that day will never come.” Dream shrugs, grinning with self-satisfaction, shoving the rest of his toast in his mouth. He knows his eyes betray his smile, though—they were too tired, weary. Dream figures George can see right through his facade.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But it will,” George disagrees lightly. A quaint smile threatens his face. “Believe me, Dream. It will.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. say something once, why say it again?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from psycho killer - talking heads :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The day </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>come, despite George’s beliefs. Or, it still had yet to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Regardless, Dream doesn’t think it comes as a surprise to either of them. They continue to play their game, Dream trying his best to push George’s buttons and see how far he could get, testing just about every limit the angel may have had while George did his best not to crack. It might have been evil, to an extent, but Dream continues to be an asshole anyways. It was about the only thing that brought him peace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George still doesn’t stick around Dream whenever he’s partaking in doing the various drugs he kept in his apartment for another month. As if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to make progress—at least, that’s how Dream saw it. There wasn’t any way the angel </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>realize the little progress he’d made, especially after Dream had said it outright, and more than once as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Dream’s own progress in driving George away is seemingly brought to a screeching halt when the angel sticks around long enough to witness one of Dream’s worst nosebleeds after two lines of coke. It sucked, but so was life, a nosebleed was no big deal—it was George’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>being there</span>
  </em>
  <span> that not only surprised him, but managed to ruin his mood entirely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream is pressing a tissue to his nostril to soak up the blood, doing his best to ignore George, but it isn’t working as it usually did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you looking for something?” Dream asks, unimpressed and irritated. He hoped George would only have something to say before leaving, and that was the only reason he had stayed. Dream couldn’t imagine why he would remain, otherwise, when his disapproval of Dream’s excessive drug use was so pertinent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George shakes his head, though, much to Dream’s chagrin. “I’m not looking for anything, no.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream raises an eyebrow. “Then do enlighten me on why you’ve decided to grace me with your unfortunate presence on this fine day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George shrugs. “I don’t know. Just thought I’d hang around for once,” he says, as if it were obvious. George makes himself comfortable beside Dream on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place. “I don’t have anything better to do, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you could start by getting your feet off my table,” Dream remarks. He pulls the tissue away from his nose and sees it soaked through with blood, but his nose has yet to stop bleeding. He curses under his breath. “And second, you could get me another tissue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not your servant,” George says, but then sighs, pulling his feet off the table. He doesn’t make any move to get up, however.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream huffs, pressing the dampened tissue back to his nostril. “Fine. George, would you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> get me another tissue? It would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>greatly</span>
  </em>
  <span> appreciated.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, why yes, thank you for asking so kindly. Of course I will get you another tissue, Dream,” George replies overenthusiastically, making a show of getting up in search of the Kleenex box. Dream rolls his eyes at the effort, relaxing back into the worn cushions of his couch. His eyelids fall shut, and Dream sinks into the giddy feeling that had begun to overwhelm his senses. He felt lightheaded, but in a good way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George returns with the entire box of tissues, dropping it carelessly and unceremoniously on the coffee table to get Dream’s attention. “There, now you can use as many tissues as you need,” George says. There’s a bite to his words, but it holds no effect over Dream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hums sardonically, sitting up so he could switch out his blood-soaked tissue. “So were you planning on doing a line or what? What’s your rationale here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rationale?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, rationale,” Dream repeats. Hypocritical to a previous complaint, Dream props his own feet on the coffee table in front of him, folding his arms over his chest. “What’s your reasoning for sullying the only time I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> hate myself, huh? What purpose does it serve?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re never sober long enough for us to talk,” George explains, though he doesn’t elaborate any further. Dream supposes it made sense, since what George was saying was true, but he wasn’t quite certain where the change in attitude towards approaching Dream’s problems had come from, since it hadn’t changed for so long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs. “And what about it? Ever think I do that shit on purpose?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I know you do,” George concurs. He attempts to make himself look relaxed, but Dream can see that he’s failing miserably. Albeit George’s persistence and desire to talk, Dream could tell he still was still very much so discomforted with the drug use.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream checks his new tissue. His nose has finally stopped bleeding.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yet you still want to try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George nods once, shortly. “I do. You were right. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>know a damn near thing about you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream knows exactly what George was trying to do—coerce Dream into talking about something personal through flattery and admitting his own wrongs. George was trying to lure him into a trap of friendly conversation, and he probably thought that Dream’s impulse control would be less than functional if he was high. Dream could appreciate the idea, but he knew himself well enough that after years of drug abuse, it just wasn’t as likely. At least, not at the present moment. Two lines of coke was </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And I plan to keep it that way,” Dream says, shrugging. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You say that, but why?” George inquires, and it takes Dream aback. Every other time up until then, whenever Dream said something similar, dismissive, George would remain passive, unquestioning. He wouldn’t push boundaries, he wouldn’t test the waters. Dream sort of admired George’s newfound challenging, defiant attitude, not that he hadn’t been an ass from time to time already.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe because I have no interest in getting to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>in return,” Dream tells him. While his tone is light, his words are nothing but hostile, and the same could be said about the smile he wore. It was simply the truth—George was an uninvited stranger in his life, but one Dream couldn’t get rid of. Someone he was tethered to, as per the rules of some higher being, some higher force that existed somewhere in the universe. If Dream was obligated to suffer through George’s unwelcome entrance into his life, he should at least be free to decide whether or not he wanted to comply with the angel’s wishes. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dream’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>life, after all, his fate set in stone or not—whatever fate had in store for him at this point, anyways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So far, it had been nothing but cruel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George levels a look at Dream, but says nothing. Dream watches as his jaw ticks, frustrated, but doing his best to mask it, though poorly. A self-satisfied smirk finds its way onto Dream’s lips. He counts it as a minor victory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George isn’t so bothersome for the rest of the night—and Dream thinks he can forgive the angel for that, simply for the fact that he believed it to be a one-off type thing. That George wouldn’t join him again the next time he got high. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Dream couldn’t have been more wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not only the time after, but time and </span>
  <em>
    <span>time </span>
  </em>
  <span>again after, does George continue to stick around. The only time Dream ever seems to get a break from him is when he’s sleeping or at work, and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>awful.</span>
  </em>
  <span> If his life wasn’t hell before, then he wasn’t quite sure what it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>now.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George had somehow always made Dream feel guilty about getting high in front of him, like a hovering parent just waiting to tell him, “I’m not mad, just disappointed.” It made Dream feel like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it was humiliating. It felt degrading, almost. Here, George wanted to become some semblance of friends, but was only successful in making Dream feel inferior whether or not that was his intention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Divine intervention Dream’s ass. George was nothing but a royal pain. Dream told him as much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Especially on his worst days. Where he felt so low he thought he may as well just stay under his covers and </span>
  <em>
    <span>rot, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if not for the itch that was always so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> present in his life, even more so than George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But despite this, he still decides to smoke pot one uneventful Sunday afternoon, the depressant weighing heavy on the feeling. It only results in helping Dream to sink deeper into his mood, yet he still finds himself craving more. Like he belonged to the dark, evil depths of his mind. Maybe he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His sofa had become a great comfort as he went through his second joint. George sits at one end, Dream the other, and they don’t speak—both only watched as the tendrils of smoke curl out and up towards the ceiling from Dream’s lips. Dream closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the couch, resting. Trying to drown out the conscience that just seemed </span>
  <em>
    <span>so out to get him.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream snubs out the joint in the ashtray when there’s nothing left to smoke, reaching for a third, when a thought strikes him. It’s a curious thought that had crossed his mind several times before, and that he had in fact already voiced, but something about this time felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Dream, here, on the sofa, sitting in silence with his guardian angel.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t light the joint quite yet, instead remaining pinched between his fingers like it’s a cigarette.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” Dream starts, and already he feels as if the train of thought will surely deteriorate. Spiral. “You’re so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>adamant </span>
  </em>
  <span>on this whole… </span>
  <em>
    <span>saving </span>
  </em>
  <span>me thing, and yet it’s like you’re making no effort at all. Like you’re not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s sort of sick, if you ask me. Taunting. It’s like the idea of getting “better” is always there and yet—it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George seems to actually consider an answer this time. He sits back, worrying his bottom lip as he thinks—not for a lack of response, though, but for a lack of knowing how to formulate his next words. He doesn’t look at Dream when he replies, slowly, hesitantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, maybe… maybe it looks like that from </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>perspective, Dream,” George says. He pauses, mulling over his thoughts and words carefully. “But, what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>haven’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>noticed—is that, slowly but surely, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>made progress.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs, taking the joint between his lips, bringing a lighter to the opposite end. He flicks it once, twice, and a flame finally appears. “Are you sure about that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George bows his head in a prolonged, self-assured nod. “I am. It’s a minimal change, sure, but you wanna know something I’ve observed? Since I’ve been hanging around you’ve gotten high less than you did </span>
  <em>
    <span>before</span>
  </em>
  <span> I started annoying you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s first instinct is to doubt George’s claim, defend himself even, but his second tells him otherwise. He thinks back to his time with George, more recently. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, </span>
  </em>
  <span>maybe he had gotten high less—the itch, though never subsiding, seemed to become more of a dull ache he’d been able to ignore for longer, from time to time, and in George purposely engaging in conversation whenever he had the chance, he slowed Dream down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>made progress, then, unbeknownst to Dream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Huh. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Dream was a fan. Hostility brews just beneath the surface of his thoughts, of his skin. He takes a long drag of his joint to try and wash away the feeling, but it only bubbles closer to the top, despite the mellowness that enveloped Dream from the smoke that swirled in his lungs, bleeding into his veins. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You haven’t made a fucking difference,” Dream argues, though it’s a lazy point. One he had repeated in various different ways over and </span>
  <em>
    <span>over</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s half-hearted. Dream isn’t even sure he means it. He just feels like shit, like he was going to be sick, but his body couldn’t quite muster the energy to do so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George hums faintly. It’s disagreeing. “The only thing I haven’t managed to do is get you to admit you want help. That you’re wrong. To anything, really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The only thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>haven’t managed to do is leave me the fuck alone,” Dream snaps. It’s sudden, and sort of involuntary, not that he entirely minds. He sits up, taking another long drag of the joint, purposely blowing the smoke in George’s face. “You have done </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing </span>
  </em>
  <span>more than make me more miserable than I was before. My one escape you </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruined, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and now it’s no longer an escape, but some kind of </span>
  <em>
    <span>torture </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead! I can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>at a fucking joint without feeling guilty now because of you! You’ve got me wanting to rip my fucking hair out of my scalp trying to ignore you, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you hear me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dream—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>off </span>
  </em>
  <span>with your sympathy, alright? Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck. Off. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Can you do that for me George, or are you just gonna continue being my fucking babysitter?” Dream hisses, chest heaving. He puts out the barely consumed joint, suddenly no longer in the mood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream stands abruptly. His upper lip is twitching with a snarl. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>your friend. I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be. I don’t want to fucking see you anymore, got it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream doesn’t wait for an answer, instead storming off to his room, making sure to slam his door with as much force as he could. It’s loud, sharp, and shakes the walls. Hopefully his neighbours think little of it. Like a bump in the night, though it’s late afternoon. His fingers grab and pull at his hair, trying to relieve some of the pressure, the weight from his head. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed to cut his fucking hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry—</span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But the feeling that comes with pushing everything off his dresser in a fit of rage was just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>gratifying. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Papers and empty picture frames and all sorts of junk fly off into a pile on one side, hitting the floor with varying </span>
  <em>
    <span>thumps! </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>thuds! </span>
  </em>
  <span>that are satisfying in such an awful, </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing </span>
  </em>
  <span>way. Dream doesn’t know why he hadn’t thought of doing something like this earlier than today. It was almost… </span>
  <em>
    <span>therapeutic. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, Dream sort of regrets it as he stares down at the mess on the floor, but as of the moment, he couldn’t really care less. The rest of his room was already less-than-cleanly, so what difference did moving his clutter from his dresser to his floor make?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None, was exactly the answer, and he wasn’t proud of it, but it was all Dream had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the itch inevitably returns and his high is diminished, Dream doesn’t succumb to it. He only sleeps in place, not wanting to run the risk of having to see George again that day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sleep is nice. Warm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It comes easy, and is welcomed with open arms.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>we're halfway through the story now &gt;:)</p>
<p>also i removed the slow burn tag bc i didn't consider the fic long enough for it to be a slow burn i don't think. let me know if i should add it back :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. holding onto the devil i know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title is from e-pro - beck</p>
<p>:)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For the first time in several months, George isn’t there to greet Dream the next morning. Or on his smoke break, or when he gets home from work. It’s weird, but Dream doesn’t think too much of it. Perhaps George was kind enough to listen to his wishes, at least for a bit. Like he sometimes did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although, what Dream doesn’t expect is for George to not appear for the next week entirely. Not once does he drop in for some annoying conversation or some well-intentioned but poorly-executed advice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first, Dream could easily say he didn’t miss George. His life had returned to a semi-peaceful, quiet privacy, and he finally felt like he could relax—mostly. The guilt that George had incidentally ingrained in him still lingered every time he lit a joint or cigarette, or prepped a line, but other than that, his escape had reverted to being an escape once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But as one week turns to two, turns to three—Dream feels isolated again. Like he hadn’t realized that the hole in his heart had been filled, until a cavity formed once more and the problem was no longer patched up. The duct tape keeping it together became unstuck, peeling off and falling to the ground, trampled over by dozens of feet, leaving room for the despondency and loneliness to settle back in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream still refuses to admit he had begun to miss George. Miss the company. The nagging. The telling Dream there was always hope, </span>
  <em>
    <span>always. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was a part of the plan set out for Dream—his fate. That his life was </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant </span>
  </em>
  <span>to take a turn for the better, no matter how much time it took. Dream </span>
  <em>
    <span>missed it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he knew that, very well, and yet he still wouldn’t acknowledge it, like many things in his life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And because he wouldn’t realize it, drugs gradually began to consume his life again. Nearly every waking moment. Any progress George claimed to have made was most definitely now null and void, Dream falling back </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard </span>
  </em>
  <span>on old habits, even though they had never been rid of in the first place. His very inner subconscious cries for help, but he ignores it, willfully, every time it threatens the forefront of his mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was, until Dream was completely out of every and any drug he had had in his possession. In drowning out just about every negative, or relatively coherent thought, he had neglected to realize his stash was running low. Even if he were to contact his dealer, it would still be a few days before he got anything. And suddenly, he had gone cold turkey, without the freedom to decide to. Sure, for only a couple of days, but cold turkey nonetheless. It was like a slap in the face, or like suddenly being doused in freezing water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George doesn’t return to him randomly, but after Dream quietly pleads for him to come back on the third day of a new kind of suffering, curled up on the sofa trembling, in a cold sweat, nibbling at his fingernails as to distract himself from that goddamned </span>
  <em>
    <span>itch. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His eyes are glassy and wet with tears that wouldn’t quite fall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George appears to Dream in seconds, almost rushed, desperate, like he’d been waiting for Dream to call him back. At first his face is humorous, like he’s about to make a joke about Dream missing him, but then he sees the state Dream is in and his expression shifts to concern and worry. George is quick to Dream’s side, and for the first time, Dream isn’t reluctant to have him near.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, what’s wrong?” George asks. His voice is hushed, though unlike he was talking to a frightened animal, like he sometimes did. This time, George actually sounds anxious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream just shakes his head, unable to find his words. He blinks, and a single tear, cool and sluggish, runs down his cheek. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a kind of silent understanding that falls over George between him and Dream, recognizing that it was not the time to push for answers. In lieu of questioning him, George stretches out a hand as if to put it on Dream’s shoulder, but it hovers, unsure. “Can I…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An eternity passes before Dream nods, though meekly. A pressure then develops on Dream’s upper arm, George offering him a gentle, comforting squeeze. Dream melts into the touch, but he still feels cold, </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And, newly—he doesn’t feel himself anymore. He felt like a visitor in someone else’s skin, in someone else’s head. The itch had become all-consuming, and he’d been scratching himself raw with no sign of relief.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ran out of shit three days ago,” Dream admits, attempting to inject humour into his tone, though unsuccessfully. George’s thumb brushes over his shoulder gingerly, like a pathetic sort of massage. Dream chuckles to himself, a sad sound. “Called my dealer, but obviously it takes a few days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cold turkey?” George asks, though it’s closer to a statement.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Accidental,” Dream confirms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George hums. “You’re handling it better than I thought you might.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream looks to George, a weak smile on his face. “Think so?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do,” George assures. “Especially since it was never your intention. You’re strong for that, I think. Even if your plan isn’t to continue with it.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Dream doesn’t say anything else in return, his gaze falling back to the floor. He doesn’t agree with George in the slightest, but he doesn’t raise any argument, either. Dream hadn’t the energy to. The words were nice, but generous. George couldn’t possibly mean them as firmly as he said them, as he made them seem. Even if he was</span> <span>Dream’s guardian angel.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Dream finally says. It’s nearly inaudible, but just loud enough that Dream knows George hears him. Dream doesn’t elaborate, however. Perhaps it was shame, or perhaps he just didn’t quite want to, unless George prompted him to continue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what?” George asks, and then the dam bursts, embarrassingly enough. More tears seem to roll down Dream’s face, with every blink of his eyes, though he doesn’t sob.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For everything,” Dream whispers. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, shaking his head. “You were right, George. I can’t—I shouldn’t… I don’t want this anymore, George. I don’t want to have to… to have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>this way if ever I run out of anything again. I don’t want to feel like this in-between highs. I don’t… I can’t stand it anymore. Not when…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When what?” George inquires, as Dream trails off, lacking the conviction to finish vocalizes his train of thought. George’s conversational nudges are actually helpful, for once. They provide motivation Dream didn’t have, and hadn’t had for the past three days. For the past while, actually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream exhales, slow and long. Careful. “It’s even worse when you’re not here. Because then, at least, I’m not suffering by myself. You made it bearable, even if I hated you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hate-</span>
  <em>
    <span>ed?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hadn’t even realized he had said the word in the past tense. He could brush it off as an accident, surely, but it was an honest Freudian slip. He probably shouldn’t deny it anyways, because it was true. His hatred was the past tense, and it had taken going sober for longer than he had in years to realize it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And maybe he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>George to begin with, but Dream had certainly disliked the angel. But, in having no company for several weeks for the first time since meeting George, Dream could only clearly observe the empty space George had once occupied. He couldn’t help but feel the hole left in his heart, where George had wormed his way in and made a home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Dream says. “I… I missed you, George. The silence was too much. After you left. I thought I could ignore it, but.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I thought I’d never see the day,” George teases lightly. George’s fingers dig softly into Dream’s arm one more time, before his hand drops back to his side. “You just wanted me to leave, so I thought I’d listen. Wasn’t sure if I expected you to call for me again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sighs. “Honestly, I—I didn’t expect you to leave like that. For that long. You never would before, so I—yeah. Thank you. For coming back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I always will,” George says. He pauses. “So, what does this mean then, for you? What do you want to do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream worries his lip, thinking. He hadn’t actually put any consideration into </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wanted, only that he wanted… </span>
  <em>
    <span>freedom, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of sorts. To achieve a scratch that would perfectly rid of the itch. A satisfaction like no other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And while sobriety may not seem appealing to Dream </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks it best. Maybe. There was still plenty of room for Dream’s mind to change. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would take time, most definitely. It was inevitable, if change was ever going to occur. If ever Dream wanted to be a person again, and not some shell of what once was, merely imitating the human life that surrounded him. An imposter, was what he was, but Dream finally figures after years that it’s not what he wanted to be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Took him goddamn long enough. He certainly hadn’t figured having no stash to fall back on would be the push he needed. Not even George himself, but rather, George’s incessant optimism and chiding had planted the seed of an idea in Dream’s head that had only blossomed without the darkness and drought of inebriation clouding his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want…” Dream starts, though with no clear direction plotted in his thoughts. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>I want to… get better. Sober up. For good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re… are you asking me for help?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream nods. “I am, yeah. I think. I’m pretty sure,” Dream says, holding out his hands in front of him, observant of how they shake. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t know how I’m gonna do this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With me,” George says. He turns to Dream, a kind smile on his lips and in his eyes. In a way, he appears almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>excited </span>
  </em>
  <span>not only to help, but excited that Dream had come to such a realization. “You’re gonna do it with me. And I’m gonna help you, and we’re gonna set you back on that straightened arrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile creeps it’s way onto Dream’s lips. George’s was just contagious like that, Dream guessed. “You still gonna stick around and annoy me when I inevitably get high again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George rolls his eyes and huffs exaggeratedly, though his grin still remains. “Of course I will, Dream. It’s what I’m here for, is it not?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream scoffs, and somehow, some way, like never before, the itch that seemed to infest his skin only felt like a distant memory in that brief moment. He picks mindlessly at his cuticles. “You’re gonna be the reason I reconsider accepting your offered help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doubt it,” George argues. “Who knew all it would take for you to finally take me up on it was for you to accidentally go cold turkey.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite Dream’s now brightened mood, he now glares daggers at George for the joke, and suddenly the itch was back in the present, as if reminded of its purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Too soon?” George asks, now sheepish. He hunches in on himself ever-so-slightly, ashamedly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream loosens up, then, if a tad forcibly. He snorts. “Too fucking soon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s the start of his journey, as pathetic and boring as it may have seemed. As uncomfortable as it was for Dream, who had had a constant headache and a rollercoaster of emotional turmoil knocking around his skull without the effects of a high to lift the weight. But it was a start, nonetheless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was gradual and at a snail’s pace, but as they say—slow and steady wins the race, and Dream intended to succeed. At least, that’s what he believed. Or what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>he believed. Everything was still very jumbled and incoherent, as it often was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream was still hesitant in every regard, of course, still doubting his ability to recover, especially since he was already getting high by the end of the next day, but it was still a weaker doubt than it had been previously. Like hope had been instilled somewhere in the deep crevices of his mind, fighting off the doubt like it was a virus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It would take time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream reiterates to himself, a reassurance. He figures it would likely become a mantra to him, during the process. The journey. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It would take time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. just calm down, you found me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from reptilia - the strokes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It takes time, obviously. As expected, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even just a month into his so-called journey, Dream has improved exponentially, he thinks. At least, by his standards. He had even become friends, he might consider, with George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard, at first—so </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>difficult. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After his brief cold turkey stint, Dream crashes back hard with drugs, desperate to make up for three days without them. He even calls in sick to work one day, just so he could get high sooner, and keep it for longer. He hadn’t been certain he’d be able to remain sober for those eight hours, anyways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when he’s upchucking the very little contents of his stomach into the toilet, George is actually there to hold his hair back like he’s some poor college student that misjudged how much they had to drink at some frat party. George is patient, though, and that energy bleeds into Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s progress begins with a new look. Sort of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next morning he asks George if the angel could cut his hair, which had grown much too shaggy and long, just past his shoulders, now. Dream had gotten sick of tying it up, and his manager had certainly been eyeing his ‘do distastefully and disapprovingly. He was already holding onto his job by mere threads, and Dream really didn’t want to give his manager an excuse to cut them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is sort of surprised, confused, but he complies anyway, claiming he’s happy to oblige. Dream had nodded, though sort of frozen to his spot and not entirely </span>
  <em>
    <span>there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>mentally, wondering what had prompted him to ask George to help. He had cut his hair before, but it was whatever—George had already agreed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s weirdly intimate, sitting in such close proximity on the bathroom floor, a towel draped over Dream’s shoulders, George’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he did his best to trim Dream’s hair. Dream sat cross-legged, slouched, George mimicking the position behind him as he concentrated. Dream does his best to sit still, only moving his head when instructed. Dream smokes a joint while they do this, if only to dull the itch, but not overdo it like he had the day prior.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a sort of… </span>
  <em>
    <span>quaint </span>
  </em>
  <span>moment. Bizarre, too. They had never been so close. Dream from months ago would have never expected them to get to such a point, where Dream would trust the angel enough to cut his hair for him. Where they sit nearly pressed up against each other, silently, the only sound occupying the air being the muted, metallic snipping of the scissors and their quiet, staggered breathing. Dream almost wishes he had turned on music, the radio, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The moment wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>awkward, </span>
  </em>
  <span>per se, but it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>stifling, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for Dream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too </span>
  </em>
  <span>personal, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>intimate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then George suddenly stops, carding his fingers through an untrimmed portion of hair, Dream assumes. He couldn’t see the back of his own head, obviously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream resists the urge to turn around and ask what the matter was, as he was unsure where the scissors may be at that second. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you waiting for?” Dream asks instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs, though he doesn’t provide Dream with an answer before he continues to cut his hair, the quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>snip! </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the scissors from before filling the silence that follows once again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I kind of liked it long,” George admits, after a minute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hums. He still couldn’t understand why George would have paused for that reason, however. He doesn’t bother to question it, though. “I didn’t want to grow it out too long.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” George says softly. “I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t speak again until Dream’s hair is cut to his satisfaction, and George is helping him sweep up the remains of hair on the floor. Dream is still left curious as to what had prompted George to make his earlier remark, though. There hadn’t been much rhyme or reason for him to say it, not that Dream minded. He merely disagreed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t a concern he prioritized, anyways, as he admired how clean, new,</span>
  <em>
    <span> refreshed </span>
  </em>
  <span>he felt, even with something as simple as a haircut. Like a visible change was what truly marked the beginning of an internal, habitual change. Dream wouldn’t admit it out loud quite yet, but it felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It helped him feel better than he had in ages. All from a simple haircut from his guardian angel in his grimy bathroom. Something Dream would have never thought would occur at </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>point in his life. It was weird, sure, but Dream thinks that maybe he’s used to life’s newest oddities by now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything… </span>
  <em>
    <span>sort of </span>
  </em>
  <span>made sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, regardless of everything going on, the haircut becomes his kickstart, at least into believing in himself. His turning point. Like a sign he’s able to start fresh, which sounded so dumb the moment he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>started to think about it, but he does his best to dust away the creeping negative thoughts. They weighed a blanket over his mind all the time, anyways, so he could at least be kind enough to himself, if only temporarily, to ignore them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because for once in his sad, desolate life, he owed it to himself. He didn’t feel as if he was required to bear the burdens of the world on his weak shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That feeling could only last so long, however, Dream would come to realize. Like getting high, euphoria would only be temporary, no matter the circumstances. It was just the nature of things, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>life. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All good things must come to an end, as it were.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream crashes, multiple times, over the beginning of his road to recovery. It feels almost as if he could never breach the starting line—it was barely within reach, but just as he took a step forward, the line grew further away. Taunting him. Almost teasing, like some cruel joke only funny to everyone but Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he begins an attempt to wean himself of any and all drugs he oftentimes consumed, Dream would fall into a panic, a severe doubt and bout of demotivation, and more often than not George had to reassure him. Provide a physical presence, comfort. An anchor, Dream’s rock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A stable, healthy conscience. Something—some</span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream didn’t have for a very long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, eventually, with much effort and time, Dream finds success, if only minimal. It’s still more progress than he had ever made. Than he had ever hoped to make.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a rollercoaster of a journey, but he knows there’s an end. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, be it good or bad. And George is there alongside him for the ride, though he occupies the back seats, where he can’t see the steep decline of every hill Dream overcomes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he’s a companion nonetheless. A driving force keeping Dream from sicking over the side of the cart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They sit on the sofa, now, as per routine—though they no longer stick to opposite ends as if there was a forcefield between them, as if one accidental touch or slight invasion of space would set off the end of the world. Dream smokes, though only a cigarette for now, in the hopes his cravings wouldn’t be as angry and persistent. It worked some days, and others not so much. It had become a guessing game, as to what his body would tolerate, not that it hadn’t already been just that. Before, however, it was more a matter of how far he could push his limits. Now, Dream was trying to figure out how far he could reel in those same limits.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cigarette is not nearly as satisfying, though. The smell is unfavourable, as well. But, then again, the smell of weed stuck to just about every surface in Dream’s apartment as is. Dream considers putting it out prematurely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve made a lot of improvement, Dream,” George says, out of the blue. They had been sitting in a peaceful silence, not requiring the use of words, conversation. They never usually did—it was like a mutual understanding. An underlying bond they had formed, of sorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Feels like it,” Dream agrees contently. He adds, a shy afterthought,  “Most of the time, at least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better than none of the time,” George quips. Dream can only laugh, though saying nothing in return. He doesn’t feel the need to, honestly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No more words are exchanged until Dream is squishing the butt of the cigarette into his ashtray. As Dream sits back, he hugs his legs to his chest, his head lolling to the side, pressing his cheek into his shoulder. It was oddly comfortable. Comfort</span>
  <em>
    <span>ing. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream watches as George mindlessly cracks his knuckles, not having anything to occupy bored hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s gaze travels up to George’s face, where he notices a dusting of freckles and long, dark eyelashes, unmoving. His eyes are unfocused, unblinking, like a statue, or simply as if he was zoned out. A ray of sunlight shines directly onto George’s face, illuminating his inky irises, revealing a caramel undertone that was otherwise invisible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream looks away, before his thoughts can drift anywhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what sucks?” Dream mumbles into his sweatshirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George blinks, coming to. He lets out a light gasp, as if he’d been holding his breath. “What sucks?” He inquires.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sighs. “I wanted to be an author, y’know? But instead I got saddled with being a proofreader for a fucking publishing company, getting to see works that would soon see the light of day while I could never pursue that kind of thing. I am so fucking thankful to have a job that pays like it does, don’t get me wrong, but—it’s bittersweet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream wasn’t quite sure what had prompted him to tell George, especially as it was the most open he had yet to be with him. It’s nice to get something off his chest either way, but it’s weird. Unnatural, for him. But freeing, even if it was something as insignificant as what Dream had wanted to do as a career. He had never told anyone about his ambitions to become an author before. Dream always believed the closest he would get was working at the publishing company. He still did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George nudges Dream, gently shoving him. “It’s never too late to pursue that, Dream. You have to know that much,” he teases. “Your life isn’t even close to over. In fact, I’d argue that… with all of this—this </span>
  <em>
    <span>recovery, </span>
  </em>
  <span>your new life is only beginning. So I’d see it as more opportunities becoming available to you. More doors.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream snorts weakly. He felt low on energy, he often did nowadays, but it was paradise in comparison to the itch, though it still existed, a parasite—it was much fainter. “Your optimism never fails to annoy me. Kind words, but I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not if you don’t take those words to heart. You have a tendency to do that,” George remarks, though not unkindly. It’s but a simple observation. Like it had been something George had noted long ago. “I—actually, never mind. It doesn’t matter right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream quirks an eyebrow, finally untucking his legs, stretching them out lanky and graceful like a cat and balancing them atop his coffee table. “What doesn’t matter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George just shakes his head, instead offering a reserved smile, almost as if he was biting onto his tongue, where he willfully let words sit unspoken. “It’s nothing. Pro—I swear. At least for now. Nothing for you to worry about, in any case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hardly catches the way George almost says </span>
  <em>
    <span>promise. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He eyes George skeptically, but doesn’t press further. It’s almost a courtesy, a returned favour for all the times George had done the same for Dream. The itch begins to sink deeper into Dream’s skin again, unfortunately, just as their short conversation comes to a conclusion, a slow halt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream is weak to resist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The good news was, was that he had nosebleeds much less frequently now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a start. It would be gradual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It would take time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream would repeat. Though mostly in his head, sometimes he stood in front of his mirror and told his reflection. He had realized it from the start, but he still had yet to accept it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream wanted freedom </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but that just wasn’t possible. It never was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted to be more than a walking corpse. He wanted to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole person </span>
  </em>
  <span>again, and not just a living skeleton of what could be. Of what once was, and what he could maybe have once more. He wanted his face to fill out again, he wanted for his ribs to be hidden beneath his skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream wanted so many things, but they would all take time to come. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It would take time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patience would serve him well, at the beginning of his journey. His first steps past the starting line. It was a virtue, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Time. It would take time. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And time heals all wounds, doesn’t it?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Doesn’t it?</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>progress progress progress</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. maybe it was me who was fucking up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from hurt - oliver tree</p>
<p>kind of a filler?? it's the second last chapter before the epilogue :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dream starts writing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the great amount of time and space he had been granted in his journey to recovery, he takes up writing again. Dream takes George’s words to heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>and starts writing again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream hadn’t realized how much he had missed writing until he was taking pen to notepad, scribbling out the words that flowed from his mind to the ink of his pen. Until he was scrawling strings of words together into stories, poems, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>that came to mind, to hand, to paper. Until his hand begins to cramp from the sheer amount of words he produces, all from years of pent up, unexpressed ideas.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t written since well before his proofreading job, just as he had started to spiral down this stupid, unhealthy lifestyle. Be it lack of time, ideas, motivation—Dream had just </span>
  <em>
    <span>ceased </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do his favourite pastime, and now, as he filled pages upon pages with his chicken scratch, he couldn’t help but wonder </span>
  <em>
    <span>why. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Especially as writing begins to form into a crutch alongside his drug use, though somehow into one much more comfortable and indulgent than getting high. It provided Dream with a new sort of euphoria, one that lasted forever, as ideas would continue to form in his head—and only when it was clear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His body, physically, was still dependent on drugs, but mentally, Dream had found his footing. An escape that could stay his escape even if George were to peek over his shoulder and read what Dream had written, even as Dream would hide it from his view. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>healthy </span>
  </em>
  <span>escape.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, though the itch still pestered Dream, sometimes—though, emphasis on </span>
  <em>
    <span>sometimes—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream was able to block it out entirely, ignore it in favour of writing. Because once he gave into the itch and offered it a scratch, his ideas were lost to the same time and space he had been given by the recovery he was supposed to be making. Dream couldn’t write when he was high, and so being high had begun to feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>undesirable, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Dream from months prior would have never expected to happen. In fact, Dream from months ago would laugh in present him’s face, tell him to fuck off, and go snort coke until he couldn’t remember his own name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream joins support groups with people just like himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts getting closer with George, too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And perhaps the latter was a cause of circumstance, but Dream couldn’t care less. He had long since grown beyond wanting to actively avoid his guardian angel, now purposely seeking out his companionship if George wasn’t already around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream makes acquaintances, of course, in the support groups, but it’s not nearly the same. And while Dream had also made friends with George since the very beginning of change, now it felt… </span>
  <em>
    <span>deeper,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Dream was terrified of that. Terrified of the implications. Of what it </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>mean.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t been close to anyone in years, and it wasn’t as if his original plan had been to make a friend out of George, so ultimately Dream was at a loss of what to make of everything. He had already been at a loss of what to make of their friendship. Dream was too busy doing his best not to tilt too far one way on the fence he walked, and fall, </span>
  <em>
    <span>crash </span>
  </em>
  <span>back into old habits, to concern himself with deciphering the enigma life had decided to present him with.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then through writing, an epiphany, Dream thinks he figures it out, and it makes his heart sink to his stomach. Not in disappointment or fear, but with the uncertainty of how to deal with the solved puzzle—George was more than a friend. Even if that hadn’t been verbally established, it had come true through months and months of existing in the same space together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream refuses to acknowledge it, at first. He plays it up to George being the only person willing to get close to him in years, and his fucked up brain, and desperation for something beyond a friendship. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It wouldn’t be fair, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks. To </span>
  <em>
    <span>who, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though, he wasn’t sure. Probably them both.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t have the strength for that, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>other than keeping himself from relapsing to a previous degree of substance abuse, Dream would reason. He didn’t have room to acknowledge it, with recovery, work, the group meetings, writing—he simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t have the time nor space. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or so he thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because the issue with this, was that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream was simply pretending he </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And he was fine with that, even as acknowledgement became less so a lurking occupancy, and more so a ferocious presence knocking at the forefront of his mind, not letting Dream ignore it any longer. It became something akin to a persistent salesman with the intuition that you were home, even if you weren’t answering their continuous and various methods of bringing attention to your door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream could only hold off for so long, but in finally accepting it, he does the foolish thing of suppressing every feeling he thinks he may have, and pushes George away in the hopes it would let him deny those same feelings. It was stupid to like George, anyways—he wasn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Other priorities, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream would rationalize. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Other things to focus on. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the large expanse of time that belonged to his name, Dream determined it was not going to be spent pining after his guardian angel. Not when he had more important things to occupy the clock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream starts sitting as far as he could from George on the sofa, locked himself in his room more often. He ate less frequently if it meant not seeing George. He stayed later at work, and left earlier in the mornings. It was taxing, in every bodily meaning of the word, but Dream was committed to it. The itch returns with more of a vengeance as a cost of his avoidance as well, and he’s miserable again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Dream had </span>
  <em>
    <span>stopped </span>
  </em>
  <span>being miserable at any point. It’s aggression had only reduced. He still pulls at his eyebags and nitpicks just about every other flaw he can see caused by years of mental and physical wear and tear onset by only himself and his poor decisions. A weak backbone. No moral compass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still lies awake some nights, full of regret and doubt and negativity, wondering if he had made the right choice, if working towards getting clean was worth it. It had caused him nothing but grief so far, and while Dream knew, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep down, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he should have done this a long time ago, and after experiencing near-death he knew he didn’t want to fall into that trap ever again, but he still couldn’t help but feel conflicted, to put it simply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>the numbness. The distraction from all problems, including his addiction. There was a reason ignorance was deemed bliss, and Dream had no reason to disagree. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But even still, he pushes forward with what little, pitiful scraps of resilience and conviction he had left. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s writing, now, wrapped in his own tiny bubble, lost in the words that fill the notepad that had been slowly running out of paper. Some of it stacked neatly to the side, other pieces now crumpled up in the garbage. Dream doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps behind him, too engulfed in the new worlds he builds for himself, and so he’s startled by the loud scraping of wooden chair legs against a vinyl floor as George pulls out a chair for himself across the table from Dream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream almost shelters the paper with his arm, bringing it closer to him and away from George’s eyesight. Like he was ashamed of his work, or maybe afraid of receiving possible criticism from George. He had never shared his writing before, as much as he had always wanted to share any creation of his with the world.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was yet another thing he had to overcome. Or, </span>
  <em>
    <span>would have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George smiles at him like nothing is wrong. Which, in reality, there really </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but Dream’s thoughts told himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>convinced </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself otherwise. Dream ducks his head, and gets the feeling George frowns at this, judging by the sound of his next words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something wrong, Dream?” George asks. When Dream glances back up the angel, he can see that George’s eyebrows are pulled together in concern and worry. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> frowning, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Just… thinking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George tilts his head. He stretches out an arm and taps a single finger on the table. “What are you writing today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream pulls the notepad closer to his chest, feeling extremely self-conscious, as if a spotlight were shining down on him. “Since when do you care?” He snaps, suddenly defensive. Dream couldn’t determine exactly where the malice had stemmed from, but he had an idea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George retracts his arm, wary and quick, like he had just touched a hot element on a stovetop. “I’m just curious, is all,” George says. “You’re sure nothing is wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream abruptly pushes away from the table, standing. He clutches the notepad close to him, as if afraid of it getting pried from his weak, tired fingers. “Absolutely certain,” Dream says coldly, before marching off towards his room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream should really learn how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>communicate. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was one of the many skills he lacked, always having had fake confidence instilled via any substance he could drink, snort, or smoke to help him along. And via said substances as well, Dream never had to deal with </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which seemed to be the cause of many issues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brains were stupid. He wishes he had decided to continue to survive on one that wasn’t his own, but alas. He’d suffer the consequences of what was, unfortunately, a smart choice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream sulks. He gives up on what he had been writing prior, no longer possessing the motivation to continue. He wallows, instead, hiding under the covers of his bed as if it weren’t broad daylight, as if sunlight wasn’t occupying every corner of his room, melting into the cracks and crevices of peeling wallpaper and worn crown moulding. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He felt like a helpless, love stricken schoolgirl, but also embarrassed, like he knew he </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>have these feelings for someone Dream still wasn’t entirely convinced </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>a figment of his imagination. Dream had been less than favourable of him for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and now </span>
  <em>
    <span>this? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Unbelievable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream had apparently not only learned to tolerate George’s company, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yearn </span>
  </em>
  <span>for it, even. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he swallows it down. Dream swallows down the feelings, deep, deep down into the pit of his stomach to be digested and long forgotten. Disposed of. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>them, nor did he </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>them. He shouldn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>them in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George was good for occupying the empty spaces in Dream’s life, and nothing more. Dream didn’t need more. He shouldn’t want more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream chalks it up to a condition of being lonely. He accepts, but doesn’t acknowledge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a shy, quiet knock at his door. Dream buries himself further under his comforter.</span>
</p>
<p><span>“Dream,”</span> <span>George says. His voice is muffled from the other side of the door. “I know something’s wrong. You’ve been acting weird for a while now. You don’t have to let me in, but I think we should talk.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to,” Dream grumbles. He doesn’t care whether or not George can actually hear his reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George huffs. There’s a muted </span>
  <em>
    <span>thud! </span>
  </em>
  <span>that follows</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Dream assumes is George slumping against the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Dream,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>George whines. “You’ve been avoiding me like the plague. Sorry that I can’t help but feel like you’re hiding something from me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Funny he says that, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream thinks, almost amusedly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Little does he know.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream partially unveils himself from underneath his blanket, moving to sit against his head board. He bores holes into the door that directly faces him, knowing George was behind it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not something… </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is it?” George asks. His voice is small, feeble. While there </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> worry, there is more </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt, </span>
  </em>
  <span>than anything. Like he’s upset Dream wouldn’t confide in him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shakes his head, but then remembers George can’t see him, replying instead with a snappy, “No. Nothing bad. Not like it’s your concern anyways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s shuffling from beyond the door. “You keep saying that. And I get it. But—you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have learned by now that you can tell me if you’re, I dunno. Struggling again. I thought you’ve been doing well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream considers staying silent, praying George might decide to leave him alone for the time being—but then his feet are hauling him out of bed and to the door. He swings it open and is faced with George, much closer than Dream had anticipated. It’s almost as if George had had his forehead leaning against the white-painted wood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George blinks up at Dream before he takes a generous step back to allow Dream to regain his personal space. If not for the height difference, they may as well have just been pressed nose-to-nose. Dream glares down at the angel, albeit with weary, sunken eyes that he knows hold less of a desired effect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream says firmly, gritting his teeth and figuratively setting his foot down. “Nothing is </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If you’ve been able to conclude I’m doing well with your own two eyes, then I’m doing well. I don’t need to keep a fucking journal entry for everything I do, George.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs, almost rolling his eyes. “I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to keep a journal entry for anything, I’m just trying to—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—make sure I’m okay. Yeah, I know, George. I’ve heard the schtick </span>
  <em>
    <span>plenty </span>
  </em>
  <span>of times,” Dream says tiredly. He drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I just—dealing with stuff. Upstairs. If you know what I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t untrue, even concerning Dream’s newly discovered feelings for George. Emphasis on </span>
  <em>
    <span>discovered—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream figures they had been brewing for some time now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But despite this, Dream knows he’s been having involuntary mood swings. Old, horrible memories that had been stowed away for years had also been resurfacing through his struggling race to sobriety. He had run out of energy only halfway through his marathon, but Dream knew he had to push forth or he might collapse somewhere along the road, helpless and alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And if his aggression meant he could persevere, then so be it. George had already taken the brunt of it for months now, anyways. It was a defence mechanism for Dream. Always had been—if no one was kept close, no one could get hurt. Disappointed. No more bad memories could be created.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one liked aggression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least, no one </span>
  <em>
    <span>should.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But George was tolerant, unfortunately for Dream. He always had been. And Dream realizes that George’s persistence and unwillingness to back down are two reasons Dream’s feelings towards George had turned. Trust had been created, unbeknownst to Dream. At least, unbeknownst to his conscience. His subconscious had known all along.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brain had fallen for it. The comfort. The shoulder to cry on. A weird sort of love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George takes a deep breath, nodding. “Alright. So long as you’re not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>relapsing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>or anything, I wouldn’t—I’d hope you’d come to me before that happened. Or your group, even.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream runs his fingers through his hair, now short, untangled, and out of his face. He still refuses to come to terms with his feelings, at least for now. Even as he’s facing the, quite literally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>angelic </span>
  </em>
  <span>man that stood opposite to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, George,” Dream says softly. “I’d make sure of it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. half of me has disappeared</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>title from daddy issues - the neighbourhood</p>
<p>oops</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dream—as per the encouragement of both George and his support group—begins drafting a manuscript. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts it off as a story, simply enough, about a knight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This knight, which somehow becomes a twisted, fantastical sort of representation of himself, begins his journey with the loss of a king.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite a valiant effort, this knight fails to protect his king. And so, he blames himself. Sets the world’s burdens on his shoulders, fakes his death, and goes on his merry way spiting the world. Seeking revenge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This knight falls into a rage, effectively breeding a new person from his past. He nearly gets himself killed, blinded by his desire for vengeance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the brink of death, one early morning, the knight is rescued. Brought to a quaint little farm and brought back to health and good morals. His head is screwed back on straight, and he returns to what once was his kingdom, and faces the life he had once left behind, even if begrudgingly so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not his </span>
  <em>
    <span>best </span>
  </em>
  <span>work, not by a long shot, nor is it a particularly riveting story, but rather a reflection—it’s something akin to a much more simplified, less </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad</span>
  </em>
  <span> version of his life story for the past few years. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nothing special, but it’s a start, and it fills Dream with an odd sense of pride.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And over the time he writes, he also comes to accept that his feelings for George weren’t going to disappear any time soon, as quick and as easily as George had appeared to him for the first time. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly </span>
  </em>
  <span>accepts them, unlike before. He recognizes it. Stops compartmentalizing it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream even dares to venture to think about telling George, but every time he does, Dream opts to erase the thoughts by getting high. It puts a hurdle in his recovery—a rather sizable one at that—but his progress is not entirely reversed. Not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>close, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Dream was proud to admit that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The itch becomes nothing more than a dull buzz from time to time, and his hands don’t tremble any more like they used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And most importantly, at least to Dream—his ribs don’t stick out anymore. It no longer looks as if he’s just a skeleton, merely wearing skin to blend in with the world around him. He looks… </span>
  <em>
    <span>healthy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the first time in years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cries when he initially notices. Something so small had brought him so much joy, he had even announced it to George, who had offered him a wide, warm smile and a kind congratulations. By the end of the day, Dream’s cheeks hurt from how much he’d been grinning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, though, it came to a point where Dream had reached a complete, screeching halt in progress. It was as if Dream had hit a wall, sturdy and unbreakable, a daunting feat he would need to accomplish, but could not do it with the resources he’d been using this far along. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rehabilitation. Rehab. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Real help.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was what would provide Dream the tools to tear down the wall, and go sober for </span>
  <em>
    <span>good.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a terrifying prospect, but it had to happen. Dream had discussed it so with George. With his support group. He had mulled over the idea countless times, wanting to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain </span>
  </em>
  <span>it was the path he wanted to take, as there wasn’t much turning back from his current life. His job, his apartment. But it meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>improvement, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which George argued was more important, in the grand scheme of things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream jokes about George influencing fate, but George had only gone quiet. Dream changes the subject, then, for the angel’s sake, making something up about the proofreading he’d been doing for work most recently. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream avoids talking about fate, from thereon. Not that he spoke about it much prior. He thinks that, perhaps, the idea of fate scared him too much anyways. George doesn’t mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Dream buries himself in work, his manuscript, and research concerning checking himself into the nearest rehab centre. The last one, of the three, was the one Dream paid the least attention to. It only made the idea of full recovery more </span>
  <em>
    <span>real, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and while that should’ve been a good thing, it was still nerve wracking. While it meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>success, </span>
  </em>
  <span>an end to his grueling marathon—it also meant a new, uncertain future that Dream would have to build from the ground up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought sent a shiver down Dream’s spine, and he didn’t quite know if that was a good or bad thing. Although, he isn’t sure he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know. It was likely better if he didn’t, anyways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But a realization also hits Dream, about going to rehab. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A loss of privacy—though also isolation—possibly meant seeing less of George, and that made Dream… </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was upsetting, almost. And it only pressed Dream closer to telling George about his feelings, as if wanting to avoid the chance of never being able to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream debates adding a love interest to his story, for a moment, but in the end he decides against it. It was silly. Unnecessary. He wasn’t thinking straight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George teases Dream about letting him see the manuscript. Dream denies him permission, and George respects it, but Dream never tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>why. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It wasn’t as if Dream didn’t plan to share the story with at least one other person at some point in the future.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But something was different with George. It always was, always had been. Dream felt like he couldn’t share his writing unless it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Unless he was more than proud. It couldn’t be anything less, when it came to George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s how Dream decides </span>
  <em>
    <span>he needs to tell George. Now or never or you will regret it for the rest of your life.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He notes how he doesn’t add </span>
  <em>
    <span>pathetic </span>
  </em>
  <span>before mentioning his life. Like it was something worth living again, which—it was, now. It really was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell George, however. That seemed to be the next dilemma following the decision to voice his feelings once and for all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obstacle after obstacle </span>
  </em>
  <span>seemed to be how Dream’s life wanted to work. A series of difficulties.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Dream much too long to figure out not only how, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell George. It’s shameful, really, as Dream is only a few days away from checking into the addiction treatment centre when he does </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leading up to The Day, as he had deemed it, Dream had been working to set up automatic bill payments to his landlord, as well as talking to his manager about getting a leave. The program was only three months, which he was technically covered for, so his employer really couldn’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>as is. He was too preoccupied, to tell George.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It works out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George is there to help along the entire way, of course, as he had been for months, though completely oblivious to the side plan Dream had been plotting for some time now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream still hasn’t told George how he feels until the night before he’s meant to leave. The night before he’s meant to leave his apartment collecting more dust for twelve weeks. The night before he’s meant to take a sledgehammer to that goddamned brick wall keeping him from a full recovery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The night is quiet. The occasional siren sounds from somewhere out in the city, but Dream pays them no mind. He never did. Especially not when George was around for conversation to fill the empty silences between the blaring alarms, all heading in the way of emergency.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a soft glow casting over George’s face from the low, yellow light of the standing lamp beside the sofa. The same light envelopes the room, and it’s calming in a weird sort of way. The dim, gentle light makes it more difficult for George to see the anxiety carved into Dream’s features. George only suspects it to be a regular evening together, and nothing more. He likely just sees it as the night before Dream takes a giant fucking step towards sobriety. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a sudden break in conversation, when Dream sharply sucks in a breath to brace himself for the words he wanted to say. Had been thinking about saying. The words had been floating around his head for a while, now, and it was about time they reached his tongue. Materialized into the air.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George’s attention snaps to him, having not expected the sound. He’s been looking down at his hands for most of their previous talk, preoccupied with picking at his fingernails. George furrows his brows. “You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream takes a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah, everything’s fine, I just—I wanted to talk to you. About something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George blinks those big, stupid doe eyes at him. So innocent, yet so knowledgeable. “What about?” He asks, as if everything were so simple. As if Dream wasn’t sitting next to him, mind swirling with thoughts, and panic, and uncertainty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that the moment has finally arrived, Dream feels like he’s choking. He swallows the lump that threatens his throat. His gaze drops to his lap in discomfort. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with George, not now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” Dream starts, but immediately cuts himself off, recomposing himself, his train of thought. “I’ve—for some time, now, I’ve tried to…  come to terms with something, I guess about myself, but also… </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I don’t—I don’t know how to fucking say this. I’m not—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” George interjects gently. “It’s fine. We have all the time in the world.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream angles himself more to face George, and the low, stiff armrest pressed uncomfortably into his back. He curls in on himself, pulling his legs to his chest. “But we </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>George. We don’t. And I should’ve—I denied this for so long, and it’s my fault we don’t have the time. It’s always my fucking fault, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s almost as if a wave of calm washes over Dream, just as George leans forward to press a reassuring hand to Dream’s knee. Maybe it was psychological, or maybe George really did have the ability to provide Dream with the relief. Regardless, Dream is thankful for it. It feels like a cool breeze on a scalding hot summer’s day. Like finding water in the middle of a vast, dry desert. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“But,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream repeats, steadying himself. “It doesn’t matter. Because I’m telling you. Now. After everything we’ve been through together. After months.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A slight frown tugs at George’s lips. “What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“George, I—” Dream pauses. It felt like his words were glued to his throat. “I think I’m… I think I love you, George.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream feels so small in that moment, almost ashamed to share the information. Love was not embarrassing, not by any means, nor was loving George—but it was such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span> word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing was that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. He didn’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>he meant it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>think?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> George questions, and it’s like a heavy stone settles in Dream’s stomach. It was almost cruel how the angel said it, but George was right. There shouldn’t be doubt. “Or you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes his last dregs of courage to get the words out again. He felt like Sisyphus, only ever coming close to reaching the top of the mountain before his boulder was rolling downhill again, and he was back to square one. A reset. A constant obstacle. An eternity of struggle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Dream was not Sisyphus, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>possible for him to reach the other side of the mountain, the smooth decline into relief of leaving the difficulty behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream says. “I do love you, George. It took me a while to accept that I did, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A smile replaces the stern expression George wore, and the stone in Dream’s gut somehow dissolves. But then Dream notices—it’s kind of sad. All the humour and joy George often grinned wasn’t quite there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m glad you did,” George says softly. “I’ve loved you for a while now, Dream. But—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“But?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George sighs. His gaze drifts to the floor. Like he couldn’t bear to tell Dream whatever words he was about to say to Dream’s face. “I’ve loved you for a while now, but I—</span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t. We can’t be… however it is you might picture. It wouldn’t work, as much as I’d like it to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shakes his head, in denial or miscomprehension, he wasn’t sure. His heart had sunk to the floor, despite the news that Dream’s feelings were requited. “Why not, George? You’re here, aren’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George still doesn’t look at Dream, fiddling his thumbs uneasily. “That’s the thing, Dream. There was something I’ve been meaning to tell you but I just… I didn’t have the heart to. Everything has been going so well for you and I didn’t want to ruin it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ruin…?” Dream asks. He felt lightheaded in a very miserable, unwanted way. “What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruin?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean,” George begins quietly, as if he wished the words would die on his tongue, “that I can’t stay anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world begins crumbling around Dream. His voice is faint, distant in his own ears as he asks, “What? Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t want to have to leave but… it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>complicated, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you know?” George says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Complicated,” Dream echoes, almost incredulously. He nearly laughs, in fact. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Complicated. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Funny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Complicated,” George confirms. He worries his bottom lip. “I didn’t want to have to tell you until you were leaving tomorrow, anyways, since I wouldn’t be able to really see you whilst you were staying in the treatment centre, but I suppose now is better. Dream, I—you’ve been on the right path, for a little bit of time now. You don’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> me anymore, nor my influence, and because of that, I’m not meant to stay any longer—I’ve already been pushing my limits.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream does his best to make sense of it, but his brain refuses. He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>George to go. “Maybe I don’t need you as my guardian angel anymore, but as a friend. As </span>
  <em>
    <span>more. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If I had known—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” George says, shaking his head. He finally looks up at Dream. “For the better, at least. If I had told you much sooner, when you were bitter and wanted nothing to do with me, you would have gone through your best efforts of fooling me you were getting better, but in </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>mindset, you would surely relapse, and I wouldn’t be there to help unless you nearly died again, or, well. Worse. And if I had told you when things had turned around between us, then you would’ve lessened your effort. You’d stop trying to get better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream felt like he couldn’t breathe. His eyes were wet and welling with tears ready to fall. “You don’t know—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>George insists. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>know you, Dream. I think I can say that with confidence now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream tries to fend off the rising lump in his throat, but it’s impossible. He speaks in a dry, cracked tone. Broken. He wonders how he had gotten here, to this point, where instead of wanting George to leave, Dream wanted nothing more than for the angel to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t go,” Dream pleads. He curls into himself. “George, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George looks like he might cry as well. If he could. Even if George hadn’t admitted to wanting to stay himself, Dream could have easily figured George wanted the same as him. “I can’t do that, Dream. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a fit of impulsivity, Dream scrambles forward to engulf George in a tight hug, as if having the angel physically in his grasp wouldn’t allow for George to leave. He presses his face into George’s shoulder. Dream sobs, his tears soaking into George’s shirt, creating a darkened patch in the grey fabric. He feels George shift as to wrap his own arms around Dream. George buries his nose in Dream’s hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George draws a senseless pattern on Dream’s back, gentle and reassuring. “You won’t remember me anyways, Dream,” George mumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream pulls away, then, frowning in confusion and disagreement. “I couldn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George traces a light circle around Dream’s ear, following his hairline. “But you will,” he says, sadly. “It’s just how it works. At the beginning, when I’m first gone, you’ll still remember everything in detail, but as time goes on it’ll seem more and more like a distant memory, then a dream, and then nothing at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream shakes his head, taking George’s face in his hands. “I won’t let that happen, not if I can help it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>George’s hand migrates to Dream’s wrist, rubbing a thumb over the back Dream’s right hand. He leans into the touch.  “I wish the universe would allow for it, Dream. I really do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream surges forward to catch George in a kiss. He wants to commit something to memory, even as discouraging as George’s words were. It’s hesitant to start, but the kiss is soon reciprocated and George is pushing back on Dream until they’re across the couch, the armrest digging into Dream’s back once more, but he doesn’t care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They fall asleep on the sofa, George laying on top of Dream. They hold each other, into the night, but in the morning when Dream finally wakes—George is long gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream feels cold, empty. He goes through the motions of packing his bag quietly and all by his lonesome, getting ready to leave his apartment behind for the time being. He didn't eat that morning, because even though his stomach rumbled angrily, he hadn’t the appetite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He still feels the ghost of George’s lips on his. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>remembers, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he doesn’t ever want to forget, but he’s fearful of that changing. Dream doesn’t want the memory to be lost to the universe as some sort of cruel exchange for the help he received from George. It was like some really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>shitty service Dream hadn’t read the fine print for—though, it wasn’t his fault he didn’t know. George had simply not told him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not that Dream blamed him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dream’s knight is exiled, the queen disappointed in his actions. She resents the knight for not saving the king, and daring to show his face back in the castle years later. It’s an unhappy ending.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Facing the front doors of the rehabilitation centre, backpack thrown over his shoulder, Dream had never felt more alone.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Rehab goes spectacularly for Dream, he’d like to say.</p>
<p>He supposes that it could be accredited to the fact that he wanted the help more than most people who checked themselves in, but nonetheless. It’s successful. He feels <em> free. </em></p>
<p>Dream finishes writing his manuscript whilst he’s in the program, and with the help of a kind nurse by the name of Niki, it’s revised and sent to an editor—a professional, though also a friend of Niki’s—with high hopes just as he’s being checked out of the facility. </p>
<p>His apartment is left just as it had been, unsurprisingly. A layer of dust coats just about every visible surface, he discovers, as he drags a finger over a countertop. But despite the dirt, <em> he </em>feels clean.</p>
<p>Dream calls his manager the next morning, everything is set straight, and it’s almost as if nothing is wrong anymore.</p>
<p>
  <em> As if. </em>
</p>
<p>The first week, of twelve, after checking into rehab, George is still a fresh memory. Unwavering. Not threatening to disappear like George had warned it would.</p>
<p>By the time he’s been at the centre for a month, Dream has entirely forgotten George.</p>
<p>It’s not a cause of forgetting as a person might naturally do, but rather as George had mildly explained—it’s like the universe steals all memories from him as a form of payment. All that Dream is left with is a weird feeling about the few months he’d been doing his best to recover on his own, feeling like there was an empty space in every one of his dreams about the months prior to rehab. Like a blank space, that <em> had </em>been filled, but his brain couldn’t conjure up any sort of image.</p>
<p>Dream ignores the nagging feeling, and soon enough it subsides entirely.</p>
<p>The editor returns his manuscript in a few weeks time with some reworking, but Dream is happy with it. He had gotten <em> somewhere </em>with his writing, and that had been all he needed.</p>
<p>Though, his manuscript isn’t sent to any publishers for at least another few months. Dream wants it to be <em> perfect. </em>He takes the editor’s revisions and puts his best work forth, whilst he also tries to branch out and live life again, outside work and home.</p>
<p>It’s difficult and lonely at first, but gradually Dream minds less and less. His independence feels less forced, less like he was obligated to be alone over time. </p>
<p>He goes for walks every other day, starts interacting with his coworkers and neighbours, and by the time Dream receives a contract from a publishing company—though not the one he worked for—he can’t help but notice the complete one-eighty his life had taken. </p>
<p>A year since going to rehab, Dream’s novella has long since been published and is semi-successful, which is more than he could have ever asked for. </p>
<p>Dream makes <em> genuine </em> friends, and while he always refused invitations to go out on bar nights, they didn’t care. They respected his decision, respected <em> him, </em>and all was well.</p>
<p>Except for, well. The obvious.</p>
<p>The gaping hole in his heart, in his life. The empty space that was constantly beside him, as if Dream was not whole, but only the half of something. But <em> what, </em>Dream could never quite place a finger on. He tries not to let it bother him, however. He had better, more important things to think about.</p>
<p>Dream is on another walk, one day, when he decides to divert his route and head towards a small café just a bit of a ways away from his apartment. He had always taken note of it, on his walks, but had never ventured to try. It was a quaint little thing, very rustic looking from the outside, and the inside Dream would assume as well. Though it screamed hipster, it did not scream <em> pretentious. </em></p>
<p>He’s too distracted, taking his surroundings in as he trudged up to the café, though, as without realizing he’s bumping into someone, and hot coffee is spilled on his shirt. It stings, at first, but the thick fabric saves him some grief.</p>
<p>Both Dream and the man, as it would appear, are apologizing profusely—Dream, for not paying attention, and the stranger, for dumping his drink on Dream. </p>
<p>Dream holds out his shirt from sticking to his skin, hoping to save himself from some of the burn, but the effort is lost when he finally makes eye contact with the man—something about his eyes flicks a switch deep in his mind. Dream almost recognized the dark and determined, yet warm eyes.</p>
<p><em>Doe eyes, </em>his mind supplies, but Dream doesn’t think anything else of it. His apologies are lost on his tongue.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Dream says suddenly. “You look… awfully familiar, have we—have we met before?”</p>
<p>The stranger pauses and blinks up at Dream, confused. His mannerisms, the way he draws his eyebrows together reminds Dream of someone, but he isn’t quite sure <em> who. </em>He shakes his head. “No, I—I don’t think we have. Sorry.”</p>
<p>Dream waves a hand, biting back an awkward, instinctual laugh. “My bad, I just—must’ve mistaken you for someone else,” Dream says. “Here, let me… I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I was heading to the café, anyways—let me buy you a new one as an apology?”</p>
<p>The man seems to contemplate the offer for a moment before shrugging. “You really don’t have to. I mean, <em> I </em>ruined your shirt.”</p>
<p>“It’s fine, I insist,” Dream says. “‘Least I could do. My apartment isn’t far, anyways, I can always change after.”</p>
<p>“If you’re sure,” the man accepts lightly, after little hesitance. Who was anyone to turn down free coffee, right?</p>
<p>Dream feels a little silly, at first, walking into the establishment with the growing mocha stain on his clothes, but thankfully the material of his shirt is dark enough that it doesn’t attract too many stares. They do not exchange any further words until they are about to part ways, other than rattling off their orders and the man’s quiet thanks as Dream pays.</p>
<p>Dream considers not saying anything other than a friendly goodbye, but something strikes the man as different, <em> special. </em>Like the second chance for something Dream wasn’t aware of. </p>
<p>So instead he says, “I’m Dream, by the way. In case we ever see each other again.”</p>
<p>The stranger smiles, nodding, and it’s <em> so goddamn familiar— </em>Dream can’t shake the feeling.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dream. And in the spirit of seeing you around,” the man pauses, “my name’s George.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and that's it! hope you enjoyed reading, as much as i enjoyed writing :) &lt;3</p>
<p>+ i also just wanted to mention that, even if i don't respond to your comments, just know that i read every single one, and they always make my day, i just never know how to respond!! for any questions (if any), i will try my best!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/crimsvn2">twitter</a> :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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